


In My House

by LittleSixx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Eventual Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Gen, Hufflepuff & Slytherin Inter-House Friendships, Love/Hate, Malfoy Family, Original Mythology, POV Draco Malfoy, Reapers, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 99,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSixx/pseuds/LittleSixx
Summary: Hermione Granger does not exist ... At least, not in the way you think.(*Note: mature rating for violence and trauma, not for sexy times.)(**Note: Draco/Blaise is a quasi-secondary ship--not a happy ending.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kylia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylia/gifts), [Joey99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joey99/gifts), [BAdeMorte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BAdeMorte/gifts), [Ceren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceren/gifts), [BabblingBadger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabblingBadger/gifts).



> As a small gesture of thanks, I gifted this work to just some of the people who were enthusiastic about my previous (and first!) Dramione fic. I am grateful for all the comments and lovely notes I received. Without that support and encouragement, there's no way I would've had the confidence to embark on this character study. I don't have a beta, so all mistakes are my own.

When Draco was young, Malfoy Manor was more of a maze than a home. Once at age four, Draco left his room in the middle of the night and the House-elves couldn’t find him until the following afternoon. He was asleep, bum-up, in a cauldron in a spare closet.

The Malfoys met the Crabbes when Draco was five. They Flooed back from a playdate and Lucius held Narcissa’s coat as she slid her arms out. Their heads snapped toward Draco as he spoke.

“What’s your name?”

It’s a normal question for a five-year-old to ask, except the question should be directed at someone. Draco Malfoy, all of a metre tall with white-blond hair, stood straight up with his shoulders back, demanding an answer from what appeared to be empty air.

“Narcissa,” Lucius Malfoy leaned toward his wife and whispered, “Why is our son speaking to nothing?”

“Talking to the air is quantifiably more entertaining than tea with those dullards.” Narcissa quietly purred her approval as Lucius pressed light kisses to her neck. “Mrs. Crabbe looked like she’s been kissed by a Dementor and her husband may well have been eating nothing but Fortescue’s in the past twenty years.”

“Yes, I know, darling,” Lucius said as he shrugged out of his own coat and dropped them both into a House-elf’s outstretched arms. The parlor was one of the oldest parts of Malfoy Manor. The furniture was made of birdcherry wood, giving it an airy, light appearance. Gold rugs and throw pillows accented by a light green blanket made the small entryway very welcoming.

It was all for show.

“Yes, but the only people we know with children Draco’s age are the Crabbes, Goyles, and Parkinsons,” Lucius replied.

“Do not forget Ms. Zabini,” Narcissa added. “She is enchanting.”

“Mhmm, yes …” Lucius grimaced playfully and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Forgive me, but I do not fancy spending time with her. The men in her orbit are rather prone to misfortune.”

“How do you believe you would end up, Lucius? ‘Mysteriously poisoned’ or ‘accidentally’ falling off a balcony?” Narcissa joked.

Lucius leaned down for a kiss.

“You know it’s either them or those blood traitor Weasleys. Our boy deserves the best.”

“Which is why he should attend Beauxbatons,” Narcissa insisted.

Lucius rolled his eyes and pressed his forehead into her shoulder.

“Not this again! We are sending him to Durmstrang—“

“I do not care what Igor Karkaroff tells you, I am not sending my only son halfway around the world and have him turned into a soulless icicle!”

“Well it is not my fault Draco is our only son, is it?”

Narcissa recoiled from Lucius’s embrace like it burned. Never in his life had Lucius Malfoy so desperately wanted a Time-Turner. He wanted to claw the words out of the air and shove them back down his throat. He had no secrets with Narcissa. Secrets are the only unaffordable luxury in a dynasty like the Malfoys.

“Narcissa, my love!” Lucius shouted after her. She stormed out of the parlor, Draco close behind. “You know every man I have ever killed and every sin I have ever committed. I do not blame you, I understand—“

“Lies do not become you, Lucius.”

**.oOo.**

Draco’s episode was mostly forgotten in the months afterward. Narcissa spent several weeks in a bedroom separate from her husband. One morning well into spring, Draco’s sixth birthday approaching, Lucius and Narcissa were decidedly not talking over tea in the garden.

Lucius Malfoy, hair pulled back in a high ponytail, frowned over a couple loose pieces of parchment on the table in front of him. Narcissa lounged in silk dress robes, sunglasses nestled in an updo, her hair only slightly darker than her husband’s. Draco chattered away in his chair; tea sloshed onto the saucer as he told his parents about his new friend named Pansy.

“Like the flower!” he said.

Draco loved to hear himself talk. He prattled on about her hair, “black as ink;” her less-than-sunny disposition, “the meanest person in the world;” and her pet snake named Tom. Lucius’s patience dwindled with his son (and his wife) as Draco rambled on. After, “Her grandmother has a tattoo just like Father’s!” Lucius let out a deep groan and rubbed his brow with the heel of his hand. He tossed a book in Draco’s direction and said,

“Read it, there’s pictures.” He turned his attention to Narcissa once Draco was sufficiently distracted.

“Narcissa,” he began, but she took her sunglasses out of her hair and put them on to distance herself from the conversation.

“How much longer are you going to hold this over my head?” Lucius demanded.

“Until you no longer have a head,” she immediately quipped back.

Lucius groaned again before saying, “You know that I adore you.”

“Hmm …” she hummed, leaned back, and slouched in her chair. “You forget, I know how you work. Had you known Draco would be our only …” She stopped to gather her composure. “You would have married someone else.” Lucius opened his mouth to protest but Narcissa held up a hand to silence him.

“I want your loyalty, husband. Eight years of marriage and I have never had it. When we wed, your loyalty was to the Dark Lord. You endangered yourself, your pregnant wife, and then your newborn son. Now that He is gone, your loyalty is to the Malfoy name more than it ever has been to me.”

“No, woman!” Lucius rose from his seat at the end of the table. “I love you and I will always love you. My trust is yours, my money is yours, my soul—“

“Has never belonged to me,” Narcissa cut him off.

“That is not true!”

“And what about when the Dark Lord returns, Lucius? What of me then? What of our son, then? We both know He is not finished. Upon His return, what will become of us?”

“You are the most important thing in my life, now and always,” he said with conviction.

“Draco is the most important thing in my life now,” Narcissa countered.

In time, Draco would learn how Malfoys did business: in hushed tones and gestures with a tension that simmers, settles, and solidifies before action is taken. While he was absorbed in a book far too advanced to understand, his parents came to an agreement and developed a strategy. There are two layers to every conversation.

Their son, of course, missed this entirely. He pointed to something in the book and looked expectantly up at the space next to him. Narcissa took notice when he said, “Oh, so it isn’t you? Okay,” and fell backward, dejected. Narcissa shot a worried glance at her husband.

“Mon bichette, to whom are you speaking?”

“She won’t tell me her name,” Draco shrugged.

“She?” Lucius asked, still standing, casting a shadow over his family.

“Pansy said it has to be a girl because boys cannot keep quiet this long.”

Narcissa snatched the book from Draco’s hands. One look at the page and her cheeks drained of their colour. She bolted upright so quickly her sunglasses fell down her nose. Lucius’s brow immediately furrowed in concern. Narcissa Malfoy never lost her composure.

“What did he point at?” Lucius demanded. “What does he believe he is seeing?”

Narcissa did not answer at first. She flipped the book over and held it aloft for her husband to see. There, taking up most of the second page, was a drawing of a Dementor.

“Get Bella.”

**.oOo.**

Narcissa never asked Lucius how he got her sister out of prison. When she asked Bella the response was,

“Loyalty is fickle, Cissy. The Dementors’ and Minister Bagnold’s,” she said with a wink.

Not that Azkaban hadn’t taken its toll on her. It was evident in little things—how her hands always trembled slightly and her tone had more bite. Her hair was a tangled mess, but wasn’t it always? Hadn’t she always been more than a bit mad?

But nothing changed about the way her face lit up at the sight of her nephew.

“Brat!” she shouted playfully.

“Aunty Bella!” Draco’s head popped into view overtop of his mini potions set and he ran into her open arms. Bellatrix lifted him onto her hip and pulled out a chocolate frog pack.

“I brought you a treat,” she said. She pulled it away from his outstretched arm. “Tut tut, nephew. You need to do something for me first.”

Draco nodded.

“I want to meet your friend. Can you do that for me, Draco? I want to meet it.”

Draco’s mouth turned into a thin line and he furiously shook his head.

“She went away. She doesn’t like you.”

“Doesn’t like me?” The playfulness in her voice turned to menace.

“She’s scared,” Draco added.

“Scared?” She turned to face her sister. “Well she might be a bright one after all,” Bellatrix quipped. She put Draco on the floor and knelt in front of him to be closer to his height. “Nephew, I just want you to stand very still. Can you do that?”

Draco nodded and Aunty Bella gave him the chocolate frog pack to hold. She pulled out her wand and muttered,

“Legilimens.”

Child minds are fast, which causes the world around them to seem very slow. Upon entering Draco’s mind, Bellatrix saw the room as he saw it, everything moving with exaggerated slowness. She pressed her forehead against Draco’s, desperately searching the room for a creature only he could see.

They were in Draco’s school room. A large wooden table dominated the centre of the space and Draco’s half-made concoction still bubbled of its own accord. A bookshelf covered one wall, all manner of bits and bobs stationed around the room, too many places to hide for a creature with no desire to be seen. There were too many hideaways and a three-sixty view of the room turned up nothing. Bellatrix moaned in frustration.

“Playing hide-and-seek are we?”

“She is scared,” Draco insisted.

Bellatrix hummed, “Then let’s make her scared in here, shall we? If it’s not out here in five seconds, I’ll kill you.”

“Bella, do not dare to threaten my—“ Lucius shouted but cut off as he met an invisible barrier. Unable to reach his son, he slammed a fist against it to no avail and Bellatrix cackled.

Draco swallowed, remarkably unfazed. His aunt’s fingers were tight enough around his throat to bruise, but he was too close to Aunty Bella to believe her threat. She was the one family member who treated him like a child who wanted to have fun, not a prince with the future of a business empire in his hands. Just before she’d been carted off to Azkaban when Draco was three, she took him along for his first-ever ride on a broomstick.

Aunty Bella let go of his neck and smiled deviously.

“There it is.”

The creature knelt behind Draco like Bellatrix’s mirrored image. They engaged in a staredown overtop his white-blond head. The creature’s body was covered almost entirely by a dark-grey cloak. It was easy for Bellatrix to see how a child would mistake it for a Dementor, but she was surrounded by them every moment in Azkaban and this creature brought none of that despair.

Five white, almost translucent fingers rested against Draco’s back. Dementors do not have human hands.

The creature looked up at Bellatrix who saw only an empty hood where there should be face. Its hand slowly reached for its hood and pushed it back to reveal a young girl all of eighteen. She was not corporeal. She was semi-translucent like a ghost, but she had a colour about her to go along with a bright, filmy aura. She was fairly plain, her dominating feature was the frizzy mass of curls puffing outward and down past her shoulders.

It said nothing, but words were unnecessary. The message on her face was clear.

_Do not threaten my charge again._

Draco began to panic and asked, “What’s happening?”

“Shh, shh, Aunty Bella and your friend are just having a little chat.”

“You see it?!” Narcissa asked hopefully.

“Why doesn’t she like you?” Draco demanded, frustrated no one would answer his questions. Frustrated he was only seeing half of the conversation and confused by the expression on his mother’s face.

Bellatrix wore a devilish smile in response to the creature’s expression of contempt. It was a continuous nonverbal threat.

_Do not threaten my charge again._

The creature’s right hand came up again to pull the hood over her face. She stood to step around Draco’s left and took hold of his hand. Bellatrix grinned and with a wave of her wand Draco was left alone in his mind.

“You birthed a miracle, Cissy.”

“There is something following our son?” Lucius asked, disturbed something could have such intimate access to his life and his family.

Bellatrix got to her feet and stood nose-to-nose with the space to Draco’s left.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Cissy,” Bellatrix said, pointedly ignoring her brother-in-law.

“Bella, what is it and why can we not see it?”

Lucius wrapped his arms around Narcissa’s waist and perched his chin atop her head. Her face was devoid of colour and Lucius’s grip was just a little too tight for comfort.

“Draco has a Reaper.”

Lucius sighed in disbelief and relief.

“A Reaper? Draco is worthy of a Reaper? Its loyalty is to him, then? This thing is no danger to us?”

“It won’t hurt him?” Narcissa added.

“What are you saying? Why are you talking like that?” Draco began to cry. He turned to his Reaper and, the adults assumed, pulled on its sleeve. “Why are they saying those things? Tell me!” he demanded. When he did not get an answer he ran for the door.

Aunty Bella was too quick. She scooped Draco up and wiped away his tears. She smiled, a uniquely soft expression from a hell-hardened, half-mad woman, reserved for her favourite nephew. Draco reached out and pulled on one of her corkscrew curls.

“You, nephew, are going to lead the next generation of Death Eaters. Only special people get Reapers, Draco. Very special people. You’ll grow up to be the Dark Lord’s second-in-command. Just like me.”

“Father says I should never be second. I want to be first,” Draco whispered.

“You will learn soon enough who your master is, nephew. You are smart and loyal, you are perfect. Reapers only come to people whose decisions guide the fate of the universe. Your death, Draco, will change the world.”

“But … I don’t want to die,” Draco insisted.

“Nephew, we all die. Your choices will change the world, Draco. You will die like the rest of us, in service to the Dark Lord, but you will have a friend there to guide you. She will always be there for you.”

“She’s my best friend?” Draco asked.

“She is whatever you want her to be.”

“But she never talks to me. Most times, she stays in the library. She doesn’t like me,” Draco pouted.

“That’s not true. Little nephew, Reapers are so rare that most people do not believe they exist.” Bellatrix shot a pointed look at Draco’s parents. “Keep her a secret, but she will come around. She’s your guide, Draco. She serves you and your destiny.”

Draco preened at the compliment and put his hands on Aunty Bella’s hollow cheeks.

“Did you know someone else with one?” he asked.

“The Dark Lord,” she smiled at him, eyes beaming with pride. “And you will lead his followers one day. The universe chose you, just as it chose him. He was a god.”

“What happened to him?”

“He is out there somewhere, my love. He’s still out there.”


	2. I: Never Bend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place from 1986-1990.

Draco would not see his Aunty Bella for seven years and he blamed his Reaper for her absence. It was an easy fix for a petulant six-or-seven-year-old, too young to understand “Your father cannot risk getting caught sneaking Aunty Bella out of prison.” He just wanted his favourite aunt and some sweets.

While she was gone, her words played on a loop inside his mind.

“Your choices will change the world.”

His Reaper did not look up from her book when Draco asked,

“What’s your name?”

All Draco could see was the top of her hood. When he reached across the table, his fingers went right through her hands. There was no icy feeling like passing through a ghost, more like nothing was there at all. She controlled when she could be felt, a new layer to the silent distance between them. 

Draco asked her the same thing every day until his seventh birthday and she never answered. If Draco at six was persistent, then Draco at seven, eight, and nine was ignorant.

Though she rarely acknowledged him, Draco found it difficult to ignore her because she was everywhere. She followed him to Pansy’s house, to his first stop at Honeydukes, and even to the villa in wizarding Paris. While he tried to pretend his Reaper did not exist, it was a full-time job because she was always there. When Pansy tried to kiss Draco at age nine, he opened his eyes to see his Reaper in the distance over her shoulder. Draco jumped backward so fast that Pansy would not speak to him for weeks afterward.

He took to slamming the door in his Reaper's face, but she would glide right through to join him on the other side. Draco had never actually seen her face. He had never seen anything but her rather innocuous hands. Except, Draco did not know the word “innocuous” so when describing them to his father he said, “They are normal but they glow a little.”

Where her face should be, there was nothing but a void. The hood of her robe hid her too well and Draco knew better than to touch her. He had, at one point, been in the habit of running into and then through her when they were in the same room. She was as untouchable as she was invisible. As Draco’s mother once said,

“She will be seen when she wants to be seen.”

“Why is it all about what she wants or what you and Father want or what the universe wants?” Draco whined. “What about what I want?!”

On his tenth birthday, Draco woke knowing something about his world would be different when he went to sleep. It was midday when Draco found himself on his way to the library, not fully realizing why until he stood between its large doors.

His parents were preparing to depart for the Parkinsons’ house. Sure, the House-elves made him a birthday breakfast to put Hogwarts holidays to shame. His mother mused on whether they could get Celestina Warbeck to perform at Draco’s funeral. Then his parents gifted him his first real broomstick, a Nimbus 1999. None of that felt quite so momentous as this.

When he plopped into the chair across the table, his Reaper looked up from her book. Draco did not know what to say, so he did what his father would do. He straightened his spine and pushed himself to the edge of his chair.  _“Be as close to your prey as possible,"_  his father would say.

Draco placed his palms flat on the table, leaned forward and said,

“I don’t like you.”

The Reaper had no reaction.

“I don’t like you because you are mean. You are everywhere and you never answer my questions. You never play games with me and I don’t think you like me and it is unfair. If I had to be with someone all the time, I would hate them. Is that why you hate me?”

The Reaper shook her head.

“Then tell me why!” Draco demanded. “How can you be silent all the time? Why are you here if you don’t want to be?!” Draco slammed a small fist on the table in anger.

His Reaper shook her head again and Draco’s tiny rage bubbled over.

“I hate you!” he shouted, pushing himself off the chair and kicking it away. “My parents say I am special because of you. Without you, they wouldn’t love me, and you don’t even like me. What’s wrong with me?” Angry tears began rolling down his cheeks. “I don’t want you or any of this! I just want to go to school and make potions and to be like my father. I don’t want to change history and I do not want you here and I really don’t want to die!” Draco’s shouts disintegrated into loud sobs.

He just stood there, crying. His father did not allow him to cry, said it was for weaklings and women, but Draco had lost control. He spent four years being told Death made him special, that dying would be his greatest achievement. There was more talk of his funeral than his inevitable Hogwarts letter.

Draco felt a grownup pair of arms wrap him in a hug. His instinct was to push her away, but she felt warm, like nothing bad could happen while she sheltered him from the world. He wrapped his arms around her waist and clutched her robes. He never wanted to let go. Draco didn’t hate her, not really.

“I want to be special before I die,” he sniffled.

The Reaper lifted his chin so he was looking into the space where her face should be. She unhooked his arms from her waist and bent her head down closer to his. No sooner was the hem of her hood in his reach than he wrapped his hand around it.

The first thing Draco noticed upon pushing back the hood was her hair, tightly curled and frizzy, popping out in nearly every direction. She seemed to take in a breath before lifting her head. Draco tilted his head to one side like a confused puppy.

He liked her eyes. Everyone around him had distrustful eyes, narrow and deep-set. His Reaper’s eyes were dark brown and wide, appearing to study the world. Her lips were round, everything about her was round and in stark contrast to what Draco saw in the mirror. Mostly, she looked trustworthy. She looked safe and her expression conveyed exactly what Draco needed to hear.

“I don’t hate you.”

**.oOo.**

Afterward, the Reaper never put her hood up unless Draco requested it. Once because he was embarrassed she could see him cry after he fell off his broom. And then there was the “incident.” Both were silent requests, an acknowledgement of boundaries.

Blaise was the only friend Draco told about his Reaper. Pansy was his best friend, but she was mean and not worthy of trust. Crabbe and Goyle were complete dolts. Blaise was wicked brilliant, quiet, and open-minded in a way Draco never understood. Draco Malfoy loved Blaise Zabini.

He couldn’t say for sure how it came up, but it felt nice to tell someone. Aunty Bella never said why his Reaper should be a secret anyway. Blaise did not ask any questions. He just allowed Draco to pour it all out.

“That’s amazing,” Blaise finally said. “Exceptional,” he added with a nod. And then it was back to wizard’s chess like they had merely been discussing the weather.

Draco sighed in relief.

**.oOo.**

Draco’s mistrust in government began even earlier than his peers’, on July 11th, 1990. Later on, he would say that was the day he finally felt like a Malfoy. On that day, he was terrified. It was never going to be a typical day. His Reaper sensed something was amiss before anyone, and never left Draco’s side from the time he went downstairs for breakfast.

His parents argued in their bedroom just before they were to depart for a party in celebration of Ms. Zabini’s most recent engagement. Narcissa left the room in a huff as Lucius shouted after her. Draco followed them both downstairs and into the parlor.

“You are not going in that,” Lucius eyed Narcissa’s robes in displeasure. Well, displeasure may be the wrong word. He was pleased to see her in something so low-cut and form-fitting, dismayed only that everyone else would be treated to the same view.

“Are you planning to stop me, Lucius?” Narcissa challenged. She leaned against the doorframe and playfully kicked the pink fabric gathered at her feet.

 “You know damn well that Avery will be there, and he could barely keep his hands off you at Christmas when you wore layers of robes. Now there is hardly any fabric on you and you know how Miss Zabini gets when she’s upstaged.”

“Someone will die. Probably a man,” she amended.

“Obviously.”

“Then I believe it is not my problem,” Narcissa winked sassily.

Draco’s father rolled his eyes and insisted, “Please, for my—“ but he was cut off by a caterwauling shriek sounding throughout the Manor.

Draco covered his ears as his parents looked at each other in alarm.

“Narcissa, the jewels!” Lucius shouted as Narcissa reminded him, “The valuables!”

They each ran out of the parlor in opposite directions, leaving Draco alone in the middle of the room. The noise stopped as green flames whipped to life in the fireplace. No sooner had Draco uncovered his ears than a man in dark purple robes and a funny hat stepped into the parlor. He was followed by another, then another, twelve in all, each taller and scarier than the last.

“What’s going on?!” Draco shouted. He whipped around, hoping to see one of his parents stride through the door and assure him everything would be okay. Instead, all he saw were strangers in funny hats.

“What is happening?!” he screamed again, but the people paid him no mind.

He looked for his Reaper and found her in shock on the couch behind him, not even looking in his direction. Fear and anger overwhelmed him. There was an electricity that burst from his core and out through his fingertips, a magic so strong it threw the nearest three men off their feet and into the wall.

The others’ heads snapped simultaneously in Draco’s direction. All twelve officials, on their feet, peered down and eleven pointed their wands at him. Draco trembled uncontrollably, frozen to his spot in terror. He had no idea what to do, he couldn’t cry out for his parents and he couldn’t beg for mercy because Malfoys were simply not allowed to do so.

“Is this it?” he asked his Reaper. “Is this where I die? I don’t want to die yet, I don’t want to die yet, don’t let them kill me, please don’t let them kill me,” he gasped. His Reaper quickly wrapped him in a hug, hood up. She surrounded Draco so he could not see the threatening figures.

Narcissa Malfoy flung herself through the door and barged through the circle of strangers to stand over her son.

“Lower your wands,” she commanded, replacing a curl back into her updo. When none of them obliged, she withdrew her wand and commanded, “Now.”

The man who had not raised his wand, slightly timid, removed his hat and nodded.

“I am afraid this is an official Ministry raid, Lady Malfoy,” he said.

Narcissa’s nostrils flared in disgust.

“I know what this is, Weasley, we have been here before. I do not need a blood traitor to explain it to me,” she seethed.

He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. The Reaper pushed her hood back and looked at Draco’s mother in disgust. Draco pushed her away and clung to his mother’s gown instead as another man stepped forward. Draco did not know where to look; the circle around him made him dizzy.

“Minister Fudge—“

“Ah, that is what this is about, is it?” Narcissa said icily. “New minister wants to score points with the public and a Malfoy raid ought to do it. You will leave my son out of this!”

“Lady Malfoy—“ yet another man began, but was cut off by another arrival.

“Lower your wands or I will have you hanged in public like goddamn Muggles and sell your body parts in Knockturn alley,” Lucius Malfoy said from the doorway. He broke through the circle to stand at his wife’s side. “Understood?”

At last, they complied.

“We are on orders to search the premises,” the first man spoke again. Draco thought that one might not be all bad.

“Why are you all in strange hats?” Draco asked, the question flew involuntarily from his mouth.

“Better than a Death Eater mask,” another man hissed at them.

Before Draco could process the movement, his father had that man pinned against the wall by his throat.

“You will watch your tone in my house,” Lucius seethed before dropping the man to his knees. As he gasped for air Lucius quipped, “On your knees where you should be.”

The circle of purple robes around them widened and Draco’s Reaper stood next to the man with ginger hair. She appeared to know him. She looked sad and reached out to touch his shoulder. Her hand went through him absentmindedly, as though she momentarily forgot what she was. That realization brought pain to her face and Draco’s instinct was to reach for her. His father pulled him backward and Narcissa stepped forward.

“You come into my house; you threaten my child,” she said. “When the Dark Lord returns, I will dance atop your graves.” The purple-robed people let the threat sink in and seemed to shrink into themselves as they realized their mistake. Narcissa turned to face the ginger-haired man again. “Except you, Arthur. Blood traitor you may be, but you did not raise your wand at Draco so I will not expedite your fate.

“You may search the house, though we all know you will find nothing. Now, get to work. As you can see, we are late for a party.”

Draco believed they were about to leave. He was wrong.

Immediately upon Narcissa giving them leave, the people in purple robes began casting spells faster than Draco could see them. His father wrapped him close, a small attempt to shield him from magic so potent it made his skin crackle.

“Be sure to stick your heads between the sheets, Narcissa and I just finished up in there!” Lucius shouted after them. “Bastards,” he muttered.

When Draco was alone in the parlor with his family he asked,

“What do we do now?”

“We wait, mon chouchou. We wait,” Narcissa sighed.

**.oOo.**

By the time the Malfoys were allowed back into their home the House-elves had cleaned up the worst of it, but the Manor was ransacked. Tables and chairs had been flipped and tossed aside. One corner’s floor was littered with the shards of a broken vase. There were gashes in several pillows whose fluff spilled out to coat the floor like first snow.

The whole house was like that—a disaster area. Much of it could be repaired, of course, but why had they bothered? Draco’s father said it was envious people from work, but Draco knew there was something else. He also knew it was the wrong time to ask.

Draco found his Reaper in the library, which did not evade the attack. The massive wooden table in the centre of the room was too heavy for them to flip. That did not stop them from pulling books off their shelves and tearing pages. Several small books stood haphazardly on the floor, their spines up in the air like little roofs.

She sat beneath one of the large windows cascading from the ceiling to a metre or so above the floor. Her arms were wrapped around a book that may well have been over a thousand years old. Her hair covered her face, so Draco stood over her impatiently waiting for her to look up. Except, when she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, Draco realized she was crying.

“You are sad,” he realized aloud. “I did not know you could be sad. Can you be happy, too?”

She let out a half-exasperated laugh before nodding. She finally looked up from her slumped position on the floor to reveal puffy red eyes and a sniffle.

“Why do they want to destroy my home? I did not do anything to them,” Draco insisted, pleading almost like the Reaper would have the answer. “I … I do not know what happened, I was just so scared and then they all pointed their wands at me. Father said I am always safe here, but I did not feel safe. I was scared. And now I am sad because they ruined all our stuff!” Draco paused.

“I suppose … I suppose this is your home too, isn’t it?”

The Reaper nodded.

“Is that why you are sad? Because they attacked your home? Because they attacked our books?”

Another nod. Draco held out his hand.

“I need you. We will face this together, alright?”

The Reaper nodded again and stood to take Draco’s hand. Their walk to Draco’s room was slow and trepidacious. He tried to calm himself with chatter.

“You knew that man. Do not bother denying it, I saw your face. You knew him. That means there are things you have not told me. Well, you never told me anything. You will speak to me one day, won’t you?” he pleaded.

She nodded again.

“Promise?” he insisted.

She squeezed his hand in reply. Draco’s parents were already in his room. He very nearly dragged his Reaper to his bed. The mattress was on the floor and his favourite blanket had been frayed along the edges. The stars that normally floated on the ceiling had vanished, leaving only a jet-black night in their place.

“Why?” he asked, overcome with sadness. He scooped his blanket off the floor and held it to his chest.

“My son, we were on the losing side of a war. A war they believe to be over. This is what they will do to us until the Dark Lord returns. This is how they remind us of where they believe we should be. They do this, Draco, to make themselves feel better,” Lucius said.

“I will kill them for threatening our son,” Narcissa added. “Every breath they take from this moment on is a gift. Always remember, Draco, the have-nots want to take from the haves until they are on top. Never bend for anyone, my son. Never.”

The Reaper dropped Draco’s hand and scurried out of the room.

“I hate them,” Draco said as he stared at the ceiling. “Never bend,” he repeated. “Never bend.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and criticism are always appreciated!!


	3. II: Secabis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for mention of suicide (but only sort of because Imperius happened)/hanging. If that's an issue for you, please skip the first portion of the second half. Ctrl+f and "before he knew it" which will take you to the first palatable section.

There is a persistent myth that the Malfoy family never actually worked to make money. One Malfoy in the seventeenth century nearly gambled away the entire fortune. However, great dynasties have safeties in place to overcome their worst impulses. For a thousand years the Malfoy family knew how to do one thing better than anyone else: own and develop property.

Lucius Malfoy did not have to work very hard. The first time Draco asked what he did for a living, the answer was a gruff, “Make sure everything doesn’t fall to shit.” Narcissa chided him for that remark, so one day in early February Lucius summoned Draco to his office.

Draco had never been in his father’s study. It was large and dark with its own fireplace off to the right of the entrance. There was a small bar area near a couple of large chairs with winged backs. It was all very black, monochromatic interspersed with small strands of red. The windows along the back wall looked out onto the manor’s entryway. It was intimidating and menacing, but Draco kept that thought to himself. Father, after all, did not accept signs of weakness.

His father sat behind the desk, marking up pieces of parchment. There were many times when Draco feared or hated him, but Draco also wanted to be him. When he stood in front of his father, Draco knew better than to wilt under that scrutinizing glare. Internally, however, he always knew something would not meet Father’s expectations.

“Son,” Lucius began. “Do you know why you are here?”

Draco shook his head.

“Your mother and I own property in Knockturn Alley and the tenant is very late with his payment. I think it is time you start to learn about what we really do, and the power you have at your fingertips.”

Lucius motioned for Draco to come around the gigantic desk and patted the seat next to him. Draco leapt onto it and straightened up. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head contemptuously as a small, shady-seeming man was shown in. While it was a mundane moment, Draco glanced at his father just in time to see him smile with pride. Maybe he saw a bit of himself in his son after all. Draco had never seen that look before, but his father’s attention was quickly diverted.

“Borgin,”

“Your son, I presume?” the man asked. Draco observed him, the scraggly beard and unkempt hair put Draco off immediately. He’d never seen anyone enter the manor looking less than their finest.

“He is of no concern; ignore him,” Lucius said without offering a chair. “You know why you are here.”

“Yes, and sales have been slow. The location is prime, Lord Malfoy, to be sure, but it’s been rough, you see, not a lot of people hunting for dark objects ‘round the holiday season an’ the new slug repellent place next door isn’t open yet—“

“Enough.” Lucius needn’t have cut him off, the man was out of breath. “You and I both know the store has turned a profit every month since it opened a hundred and thirty years ago. You and I both know the terms of your lease and what I can do to you for violating it.”

Draco’s mouth fell open in awe as the man, Borgin, seemed to cave in on himself and sway where he stood. Lucius smiled as if to say,  _Prey captured,_  and folded his hands atop the desk as Borgin sputtered.

“N-no, no, I—the store hasn’t done as well as it should have this quarter. Profits are smaller. Burke overprices the artifacts and they undersell. I just, the money. I’ll get the money. I’ll have it by Tuesday, Lord Malfoy.”

“Yes, I believe it is best we look forward, not backward,” Lucius sighed. He leaned forward, halving the distance between himself and Borgin, and lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “How am I to trust you?”

“Now, don’t you worry, I’ll have all of it to ya on Wednesday, so much you’ll be drownin’ in it. Ya won’t be able to tell your Knuts from your nuts!”

Lucius Malfoy was not amused, but Draco couldn’t hold back a small giggle.

“We just agreed on Tuesday,” his father said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, that’s right, alright, Tuesday.” He held out a hand but Lucius only looked at it distastefully.

“Dobby!” he shouted, and the little house-elf appeared to escort Borgin out.

“Get off me!” Borgin shouted as Dobby pulled on his pant leg to drag him away.

“That’s it?” Draco asked, underwhelmed as the door shut behind Borgin. His father chuckled.

“What were you expecting, my son? Magic? Shouting? Expletives?” When Draco nodded over-enthusiastically at each suggestion, Lucius’s smile vanished. “No, Draco. Those things are for lesser people. We have too much power to resort to those tactics. As the man who will eventually take over the business, this house, and the lineage, it is best you start understanding your responsibility. The Malfoy name is your destiny.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco said. “How do you get people to do what you need them to do without scaring them?”

“Draco, when it comes to influence, there are only two things that matter: what you can do and what people believe you can do. I have done things in the past that were, shall we say, ruthless. With the Ministry watching us so closely, I could not do those things now, but Borgin does not know of those circumstances.”

“He thinks you might kill him?” Draco’s mouth fell open. “That’s just the same, isn’t it? You’re making him do what you want by scaring him. You just didn’t use magic to do it,” he said, disgusted.

“It is not the same, Draco. It is not the same!” Lucius punctuated that last with a fist to the table. “I gave him a choice. I did not curse him and force him to empty his pockets onto my desk. The only reason someone resorts to force is because they are weak in everything else. I am not weak!”

Draco shrank into his chair, afraid he had ruined whatever Father planned to show him. His father had killed people. On one hand, Draco wanted to ask how many, but at his core he knew he did not want to know. He thought of Blaise, whose mother killed for money and notoriety. Draco remembered his mother saying the Dark Lord killed to cleanse and killed for power. But weren’t his parents above them? They would not kill people. They couldn’t, right? Except, Draco realized at his core he’d always known what they were.

They were murderers.

“Then what makes you better than Muggles?” Draco asked. “If you don’t need magic, then why are we better than them?"

His father paused momentarily to look at Draco; Lucius’s face pinched as though he was insulted by his son’s stupidity. Then he grabbed Draco’s hand and muttered “Secabis” while drawing a line down Draco’s palm with his wand. The skin along the line split open and Draco gasped in pain as blood seeped out onto his hand. He tried to wrench his arm away but his father’s grip was too strong.

“This, Draco, is what makes us different. This blood is pure, it is the most magically potent of all, my son, and you had best remember that,” his father said in a tone not dissimilar from the one he had used on Borgin.  

Lucius Malfoy stood and pulled Draco out of his chair, nearly pulling the arm out of its socket along the way. Draco cried out and his father rolled his eyes. He dragged a squirming Draco over to the wall on their right. He forced Draco’s bloody palm onto the wall and suddenly an entire segment disintegrated into small shards that rained onto the floor and disappeared.

Draco took his hand back and stared in awe at the room coming to life in front of him.

“Your blood is everything, my son. Not another person can gain access to this room, not even your mother. Your blood will open many doors, Draco, and you must learn only to step though the right ones. As Malfoys, we are part of wizarding history, the only history that matters, and these are our valuables.”

It looked like a collector’s exhibit in a museum, lit by floating orbs of yellow light. Whereas his father’s study was dark, this room was a pigmented treasure trove. On one table was a tiara Draco would later learn belonged to Queen Elizabeth I. On the far wall were seven books of Olde Magyk, some of which appeared to be written on papyrus. Their bindings were perfectly preserved. On a shelf to his right was a series of animal horns from unicorn to horned serpent to the crumple-horned snorkack.

The centre of the room was a long table, filled with items Draco did not recognize. He zeroed in on what he knew to be a vial of unicorn blood next to an innocent-looking journal. It was odd, so odd that Draco needed to know what was inside. What about that journal made it “valuable?” He took several steps forward toward the table and reached for that book, but was abruptly pulled back by his shirt and thrown to the ground where he landed with an audible “oof!”

When Draco opened his eyes, his Reaper was hovering over him. Her dark brown corkscrew curls were haloed by light from some of those orbs. Draco squinted as a dull ache creeped through the back of his brain. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up.

“Yes, best not touch that,” Lucius said skeptically. “It seems your friend may know more than she is letting on.”

There was never a point in Draco’s life when he was not mercurial and prone to melodrama. He looked down at his hand, blood still dripping out of the wound, then to his father, and over to his Reaper before he promptly lost his mind.

“She never lets on anything!” he shouted. “You never tell me anything! Why do you keep secrets from me? Both of you are supposed to protect me but all you do is hurt me. That’s all you do, and yet somehow I am the problem. I’m too little!” he cried, exasperated. “I don’t understand everything but I want to try and you won’t let me.”

Draco ran out of the room and out of his father’s office. When he felt a hand on his shoulder he jerked it away. When that hand grabbed for his, Draco turned and pushed his Reaper onto the ground. For a moment, he was shocked she allowed herself to be pushed. The Reaper looked up at him with those wide brown eyes, expectant.

He turned around and made for his bedroom. When the Reaper once again got up to follow him, Draco just whispered,

“Please.”

Because sometimes he had nothing left to say. It was a see-saw of emotions. Sometimes his father was proud and emphasized his role in continuing the Malfoy line, and other times he treated Draco as either too stupid for or not worthy of that responsibility. It was, after all, his father’s house, so Draco believed the only power he had was to walk away.

**.oOo.**

Lucius Malfoy frequently remarked that Draco was too much like his mother. Make no mistake, he looked like a Malfoy. Their trademark high cheekbones, white-blond hair, and grey eyes ensured everyone would know who he was before he could tell them. But Draco had a French attitude and flair for drama that was distinctly Narcissa.

“Jai un gran creux!” Draco whined before dinner one evening.

“Casse-toi,” Narcissa snapped at him. When Draco crossed his arms and huffed in anger, she said, “Pleure un coup, tu piss eras moins.”

“C’est vraiment méchan de dire ça!”

“I say it with love, mon loulou.”

“For the love of Merlin will you two speak English?!” Draco’s father shouted from the head of the table.

It was March, nearly a month since the incident in the study. Draco had avoided his father and his Reaper as much as he could, preferring to spend time with his mother and his potions set. Pansy’s family was vacationing in Russia and Draco’s father complained he was spending “too much time with that Zabini child.” So Draco had spent the month alone.

“Draco believes if he complains in French that I will make his food come more quickly,” Narcissa answered from the chair to her husband’s right. “What does it matter if he complains in French? You certainly are not going to do anything about it.”

“I find it most irritating.”

“Of course, I always believed he would need to speak French because he would be attending Beauxbatons.”

“Narcissa—“

“I know, Lucius. Compromise. Hogwarts is a fine school and Draco will excel there. Nonetheless, he will keep at his French.”

The conversation ended there. House-elves delivered the food and Lucius skimmed the  _Daily Prophet_  as Narcissa flipped through a magazine. Draco looked back and forth between his parents. He hadn’t told them his Reaper had shown her face. It seemed like a secret, like a gift he would spoil if he told anyone.

“Oh my,” Lucius said almost gleefully. It pulled Draco out of his thoughts.

“What’s that, my love?” Narcissa asked distractedly, still perusing the issue of  _Gnome and Garden_.

“Well,” Draco noticed that his father was unable to hold back a suspicious grin. “It seems Auror Nash was found dead in a room at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“How unfortunate,” Narcissa replied with a disinterested tone suggesting it was very much the opposite.

“It says here that he hanged himself with bedsheets.”

“Did he now? I wonder why he would do such a thing.”

“Auror Nash was part of the Ministry raid last July.”

“Was he, now?” Narcissa deflected.

Lucius put the paper on the table and stood to move behind Narcissa’s chair. He placed his hands on her shoulders and bent low to kiss her cheek.

“I love you so much, my darling,” he whispered suggestively in her ear. Whatever else he said was too low for Draco to hear. It was probably for the best as it made his mother flush pink and pull his father into a languid kiss that lasted so long Draco squirmed in his seat.

Before he knew it, they were weaving their fingers together and nearly ran out of the dining room.

“Don’t slump, Draco!” Lucius chastised from the doorway.

Draco straightened in his seat as his mother reminded him,

“What is it we say, Draco?”

“Never bend,” he replied automatically. His mother gave him a smile before Lucius whisked her away to their bedroom.

The house-elves cleared his plate and offered him dessert which he refused. They scuttled around him, but Draco did not move. When the house-elves asked if “Master Malfoy is ready for bed?” he replied,

“I am waiting for someone.”

The best thing about house-elves was that they did not ask many questions. When his Reaper finally appeared she took the seat vacated by his mother. Draco looked at her in the eyes and asked,

“Will you promise to always tell me the truth?”

She nodded.

“Did my mother kill someone?” The Reaper only stared at him so he again demanded to know, “Did my mother kill that man?”

Then the Reaper nodded.

“Aunty Bella said you are here to guide me and I need to know, I need you to tell me something because I don’t know and I am scared to ask anyone else.”

Another nod in affirmation.

“She did it because that man might have killed me. She did it because he scared me and because she said she would. Father won’t tell me why all those people at the Ministry hate him, but it’s because he killed people, right?”

She nodded again.

“But he must have killed the right people! Father is never wrong. He cannot be wrong. Mother and Father would only kill for what they believe in, so it must be right. Maybe they were only Muggles so it’s okay—“

Draco’s Reaper stood abruptly and her chair exploded. He ducked as shards of wood flew everywhere. When he looked up, her eyes narrowed and her hair seemed to crackle with excess magic.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” he observed aloud. When his Reaper’s expression remained unchanged, he continued.

“I don’t know, okay? My parents are killers and I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t want to be a killer. I don’t want to kill people and I feel like that makes my parents love me less. And now I don’t know what upset you and you won’t tell me! Why are you like this? Why are you always like this?!”

Instead of answering, the Reaper headed for the door. Draco ran after her. He grabbed for her robe but his fingers went right through. He shouted in frustration.

“I hate you! I hate you and your stupid silence and your stupid robe that never changes and your stupid hair!” She turned around, fire in her eyes. “You promised to tell me the truth but you never tell me anything. You are annoying and useless and I hope I die soon because I don’t want you around anymore!”

Her mouth fell open and her shoulders slumped. She opened her mouth like she was going to speak and reached out like she was going to wrap Draco in a hug. She thought better of both.

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Draco admitted. “I just wanted to know …” He stopped himself. “I thought I could trust you because Aunty Bella said ...” He stopped again and sighed. “My parents know about me, they know I won’t kill people who have done nothing wrong. Father thinks I am weak and you are the only reason my mother believes I am not a failure of a son. Is there something wrong with me? Is it bad that I don’t want to be like them?”

 Draco turned on his heel and made for his bedroom, not expecting an answer.

“No.”

It was a soft voice, so quiet that he could not even describe it. Draco did not pause to glance over his shoulder. He did not want to let her know he heard it. Maybe she hadn’t even meant to say it.

As Draco walked away, he thought about his parents. They were killers. He was too young to understand, they’d say. But Draco knew his mother loved him and that was more important than anything else she could do.

Then he realized why he hated his Reaper.  _She treats me like my father does_. That realization made Draco stop in his tracks.

Draco was a burden to his father. He was a responsibility, part of Lucius’s duty to ensure the line lives on. The Reaper was not acting like a guide, she was acting out of duty. In service to Draco’s destiny, they were there to work and not to love. In fairness, Lucius did love Draco, but he loved Narcissa more because it was natural. Draco was something his father had to work at, had to remind himself to love.

People only loved Draco if they had to. He was his father’s only son and his Reaper’s only charge, insisting Draco live up to a legacy he could not yet understand.


	4. III. Happy Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only fitting I publish this chapter on Draco's 37th birthday!! I know Draco's middle name is supposed to be Lucius, but I think that's stupid so I changed it. No beta reader, so it's just me and my good friend Spellcheck. Apologies for any typos/grammar errors.

Draco woke early on his eleventh birthday. Sunlight streamed through the windows when he felt someone kicking at his mattress. He muttered, “Dimanche. Je suis fatigue,” but the movement persisted. He threw a pillow at whomever it was and groaned his frustrations into another pillow when he heard it hit the floor. The shaking stopped for a few peaceful seconds before an obnoxious tapping sounded on the window.

“Draco!”

“What?!” He angrily pushed himself off his pillows and onto his knees, expecting to see a house-elf. No one was there so he turned toward the window to see his Reaper, standing there smiling. His mouth fell open in shock. Hearing her say his name for the first time was a birthday present he never thought to ask for.

They had been strangely inseparable since February, but his Reaper had not spoken again. She followed him almost everywhere, occasionally helping him with potions when his mother was not around. She would pull books from the library for him to read, which he did only because she would sulk disapprovingly until he acquiesced.

And instead of being angry at Draco for his whiny, early-morning response, she just smiled and nodded toward the window.

“Happy birthday.”

Draco was stunned. She was, well, giddy. She said his name. She spoke. Her voice was quiet and rather bossy. It was certainly not the voice he had been using for her in his head. These thoughts rushed through his foggy mind before Draco turned his attention to the window.

There, pecking on the glass, was an owl with a red-sealed tan envelope clutched in its beak. Draco jumped out of bed, opened the window, and snatched the letter. His Reaper watched wistfully as Draco tore it open without pausing to notice the sender. She smiled as he read along, sleep-mussed hair grazing the collar of his Slytherin t-shirt.

**“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.**

**Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)**

**Dear Mr. Malfoy,**

**We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.**

**Term begins on September1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.**

**Yours sincerely,**

**Minerva McGonagall,**

_**Deputy Headmistress** _

Draco ran downstairs to the dining room shouting, “Mother! Father!” long before they could hear him. Though he knew it would be coming, having his acceptance in his hand felt too good to be real. He waved the letter as he ran through the doors to his mother’s study and stopped at the edge of her desk. His father looked angry, body directed away from Narcissa, which Draco knew to be a bad sign. His mother had her arms crossed, but smiled when Draco held up his letter for her to see.

“Very good, Draco,” she said. “Your father and I have had a discussion and believe we should also give this to you.” She held out another envelope. It was robin’s egg blue, sealed with silver wax and stamped with a fleur-de-lis. Draco placed his Hogwarts letter on the desk and tore into this new one.

**“To Master Draco Black Malfoy,**

**We are pleased notify you of your place at the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Please find enclosed a list of necessary books and equipment.**

**Term begins September 1 st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.**

**Sincerely,**

**Madame Olympe Maxime**

_**Directrice** _ **”**

“Oh,” was all Draco could manage.

“It is time we begin trusting you with your life a bit more, mon destin,” his mother said. “Your father and I know you will excel at either school. You need to be happy, so tell us, which do you want to attend?”

“Does Beauxbatons have a good Quidditch team?” he asked.

“I know they have Quidditch,” Narcissa said hesitantly. Draco tossed the blue envelope aside.

“Hogwarts,” he said definitively. His father held up a hand, which Draco high-fived before turning around to leave. His Reaper could not repress a smile. For once, Draco was sure of himself. He never considered Beauxbatons, primarily because Malfoys go to Hogwarts. His father was a Slytherin and Draco was determined to follow that path. He was determined to uphold that legacy because, honestly, it was the only part he believed he could do.

**.oOo.**

The Malfoys waited to shop at Diagon Alley until the very last day because Draco grew fairly quickly. Had they purchased robes two months earlier he would have already outgrown them. Lucius accepted his role on this trip as the money and resident line-stander. Draco never had the patience for lines.

Flourish and Blotts was their first stop. Draco could almost see his Reaper’s heart beating out of her chest with excitement. It was early enough in the morning they avoided the last-minute rush of prospective students and harried parents. Draco had already read half the books on the list included with his letter. ( _A History of Magic_  at the behest of his Reaper along with  _Magical Theory_  which was only slightly less dull than  _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_. Though that last had been very helpful with his potions. He had practically memorized  _Magical Droughts and Potions_.)

 

Narcissa grabbed  _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,_  and  _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ while Draco’s Reaper half-dragged him to the second level. She pointed at various books, most of which Draco declined. He took a couple including  _A Fully-Illustrated History of the Flying Carpet_ , but Draco put his foot down at  _Hogwarts: A History._

“No,” he said. “I will just learn everything while I am there.” When the Reaper didn’t budge he angrily snatched the book from her hand and said, “Just because you are interested in something does not mean I have to waste my time on it. You practically lived in my library the past eleven years anyhow.” If he sounded bitter, well, that was just an accident. Until he realized,

“Unless these books are not for me.” His Reaper crossed her arms and gave him a look that said,  _Of course they’re not for you!_

“This is it. This is why I cannot stand having you around. These are books we do not have at the manor? Why did you not ask for them earlier? Because that would have meant speaking to me?”

Before the Reaper could nod or continue her ridiculous mime routine, a very thin boy Draco hadn’t noticed before interjected.

“Talking to yourself in public? Brave.”

Draco turned to see the wiry kid, scrunched his nose and looked affronted.

“Who are you?”

“Theodore Nott. Theo,” he amended. He offered his hand to Draco who took it firmly and said,

“Draco—“

“I know a Malfoy when I see one. You’re going to Hogwarts?”

“All Malfoys go to Hogwarts,” Draco replied.

“Right, right, see you’re exactly as my father said you’d be. Entitled, proud little prick—“

“Smart, wealthy enough to buy your house with my allowance, and bilingual, you forgot just then,” Draco cut him off. Theo laughed.

“I like that; I like you.” He nodded as he brushed past Draco. “See you in Slytherin.”

Draco let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. New people made him nervous. How could he believe they would see him as a true Malfoy when even his parents had difficulty doing that? The one sign he would at least do something remarkable, his Reaper, was a secret he could not share. All the other kids would know is what Draco chose to show them. Apparently, that might be enough.

His Reaper, conversely, appeared much less pleased. She had begun to walk downstairs toward his parents. Draco sighed and shifted the books before following suit. Father looked at the new additions and frowned as he picked up  _Bonniers Konversatoinslexikon_.

“What is this, Swedish? Are you going to begin speaking Swedish at the dinner table as well?”

“There is, um,” Draco glanced at his Reaper who shrugged. “Information I may need to learn more about Reapers.” He glared at his own and said, “Whether they can be trusted.”

The Reaper narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips. Her,  _you’ll regret that,_  did not need to be said aloud. Once his father turned around, Draco stuck out his tongue at her. She rolled her eyes in response.

“I know when you lie to me, Draco,” his father said. Draco blanched. “Always remember that.”

On that note, Narcissa decided to leave Lucius in the long line (The shop had filled up more quickly than the Malfoys anticipated.) and take Draco to Madame Malkins to be fitted for robes. He huffed when his mother departed for Ollivander’s, leaving Draco alone on a dais with his arms stretched wide in a manner he found most undignified. He hated robes, mostly because they were the same as everyone else’s. His clothes were a status symbol and robes leveled the playing field.

He sighed in relief when another young boy walked through the door. The boy had tousled dark hair that swept across his forehead. He had a look of confused awe on his face and Draco went from relieved to disgusted.

_He must be a Mudblood._

“Harry!” a surprised voice shouted.

Draco had not realized his Reaper was in the store. She looked happy and appeared to take a step forward before her face fell and she turned her back.

“Harry?” Draco asked her. He turned to face the boy. “Harry?’

“Wow!” the boy exclaimed, taking a step backward. “You know who I am, too?”

“You’re Harry Potter?” The boy nodded his confirmation and the seamstress nearly tripped over herself trying to get him onto the dais. She, for some reason, began fitting them in concert with each other.

“I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy,” he was sure to emphasize that last bit. Surely Harry Potter, potential powerful dark wizard according to Father, had heard of the Malfoys.

“Okay,” Harry nodded, disinterested. He held his arms out to the side so Madame Malkin could place the pins. Draco, too, was bored so he continued to chatter on.

“My father’s next door buying books and my mother is looking at wands. Really what I want is to go look at racing brooms, but I do not think they will buy me a new one. It is such a stupid rule that first-years cannot have our own brooms, don’t you think?” When Harry did not respond, Draco continued. “Have you got your own broom?”

“No.”

Draco felt very good, knowing he had something Harry Potter did not.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

“No.”

“I do. I have been flying since I can remember. Sometimes I got so high up I nearly flew into one of those infernal Muggle contraptions. With the blades and the shoop, shoop, shoop,” Draco said, imitating the sound of whirring blades. Harry Potter laughed at his attempt.

“Helicopters?”

“You’d know better than I would,” Draco shrugged.

They stood in silence until someone said, “Nicolas Flamel.”

Draco jumped backward in surprise, tripped over part of his hem that had not yet been pinned, and fell backward off the dais. Harry burst into laughter.

“Shut up, Potter!” Draco shouted as he lifted himself up. He turned to his Reaper and asked, “What the hell?”

Madame Malkin, believing Draco was speaking to her, said, “I’m sorry I hadn’t gotten to—“

“Not you!” Draco cut her off as he retook his spot on the dais. He made it a point to ignore his Reaper and focus on Harry.

“So who are you shopping with, Potter?”

“Hagrid, from Hogwarts,” he said. Draco scoffed.

“Rough luck. As famous as you are and they pawn you off on a servant.”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” Harry amended, using a tone Draco’s father would have labeled unacceptable.

“My father says there are only two types of people in the end: servants and those who are served,” Draco said, happy to be able to quote his father to someone so famous.

“Your father sounds like a terrible person,” Harry challenged. Draco’s hands instinctively balled into fists.

“Do not insult my father, Potter!”

“Then don’t insult my friends,” Harry shot back. Draco relaxed for a moment. Potter didn’t have any family, so maybe he was just being loyal to the people he knew because they were all he had.

“You know, Potter, I almost like you. I know nothing about your parents, but I know if my mum died, I’d be completely lost and I’d be sad forever.” Harry’s eyes narrowed, like Draco might not be quite as bad as he seemed. “So allow me to help. You don’t want to go around making friends with the wrong sort.” Draco held out his hand, but Harry only looked at it before saying,

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.”

Draco was surprised, but unfazed, and let his hand fall back to his side.

“On the outside, Potter, you are just like Mudbloods. Probably never even heard of Hogwarts until you got your letter, right? You do not understand the way our world, the real world, works. But on the inside, you are magical. Whether you like me or not, it is best you remember that I am not stupid. You have power and I will always want that on my team.”

“Don’t count on it,” Harry shot back contemptuously.

“I never do,” Draco replied.

“That’s you done, my dear,” Madame Malkin said as she slipped the robe off Draco. He hopped off the dais and his Reaper grabbed his arm.

“Draco.”

He ignored her.

“Draco!” Her voice had an edge of concern that scared him, so he finally looked at her.

“You need to tell him about Nicolas Flamel. Do not ask me questions, just trust me.”

For the first time in eleven years, she said a complete sentence and it was about Harry Potter. Draco could not think of a response, really. He was offended. More offended than he had been by Theo’s assessment or Harry Potter rebuffing his attempt at friendship. Eleven years of his life were hardly worth a peep, but one look at Harry Potter and suddenly she was a chorus in comparison.

Draco would not allow his life to be about Harry Potter. Everyone from his father to Aunty Bella to Madame Malkin could attest to that. He was supposed to shape his own destiny, not the other way around.

Right?

Or maybe the universe knew best. Maybe his Reaper knew what needed to be done. But for what? The most he got from her was contempt. He looked at her and was always reminded of his own death, always at his shoulder like a second conscience. Maybe she meant more, but how could Draco know?

He turned away and made for the door.

“Draco!” she shouted after him.

He stopped in his tracks. Her voice cracked in desperation. She didn’t sound bossy, she sounded vulnerable.

“I need you to trust me, Draco,” he turned to face her then. “Please.”

He had one hand on the doorknob. He huffed and before he could overthink it, Draco walked over and planted himself in front of Harry Potter.

“Two words, Potter: Nicolas Flamel.”

“Is that a spell?”

“It’s a name,” Draco huffed again.  _What an idiot_. “Don’t they have books in the Muggle world? Can’t you read?” Harry opened his mouth to respond but Draco dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He turned to Madame Malkin and said, “Thank you,” before angrily stomping out the door.

The Reaper stayed at Draco’s shoulder as they made their way up the street to Ollivander’s.

“You know him. How do you know him?” When the Reaper did not answer, he set his jaw and said,

“Do not ask me to do anything for you again. I won’t.”

**.oOo.**

Mr. Ollivander was an older man whose hair sprouted off his head in several directions. Draco thought he looked like he was a Knut short of a Galleon, and his confused, quiet muttering only added to that perception.

Both Draco’s parents’ wands were elm. His father’s was long and thin, dragon heartstring at the core. His mother’s was shorter and feminine, with a phoenix feather core. The Malfoys insisted their son’s wand should be similar, but Ollivander disagreed.

Draco tried six elm variations (Each of which resulted in a sound not unlike air being let out of a balloon.) before Ollivander insisted, “Enough!” He marched through the cluttered shelves to the back of the store. They heard several boxes topple and Mr. Ollivander go, “Oof!” before he came back.

“Of the three cores, this young lad needs a unicorn hair. Unicorns, you see, are not aggressive unless you give them reason to be. They command attention and demand respect. These wands are the most faithful, but not the most powerful.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Narcissa insisted. “That is not for Draco.”

Mr. Ollivander steadfastly ignored her and continued speaking specifically to Draco. Once he caught the younger Malfoy’s gaze, Draco thought that underneath the crazy, those pale grey eyes were not dissimilar to his own.

“Power does not always come from spells. Power is wielded by those who make difficult choices with high stakes.” Draco’s Reaper jumped backward as Ollivander appeared to make eye contact with her. Draco felt a surge of satisfaction knowing he’d repaid the favour from earlier at Madame Malkin’s, but looked at Mr. Ollivander skeptically.

“It isn’t about the strength of the spell, so much as you deciding when and how to cast it. Show restraint and demand respect, and you will be on your way to greatness. “Not all power is the same,” Ollivander said as he handed Draco the ten-inch hawthorn wand.

The moment Draco’s fingertips met the handle, the front door of the shop slammed shut. Shades unfurled themselves over the windows, plunging the room into darkness. The tip of his wand shone with a little ball of light, the only luminary in the room.

Draco gave the wand a swish and the shop returned itself to normal.

“Oh, bravo! Very good!” Mr. Ollivander chanced a glance over at the parentals, but Draco was not so brave. He wanted to chuck the wand to the back of the store. He’d wanted an elm with dragon heartstring like his father, if perhaps shorter. Malfoys were supposed to be powerful and this wand was a failure on all counts.

“I will give you this,” Lucius said as he pulled seven Galleons from his pocket. “You have described my son perfectly.” His tone made clear it was not a compliment.

**.oOo.**

Later that night, Draco sat on his bed and stared at his wand. His Reaper stood off to the side in a corner.

“I know you know Harry Potter. I saw you reach for him, the way you looked at him, and you know you have never looked at me that way. You wish you were in charge of him instead. Of course he’s got all the dramatic destiny. Probably going to do a lot of work before he dies, right? Not me, no. No, I just get to be here and wait to die for the first and only time I’ll do something right.

“You’re supposed to care about me, but you do not. There is no reason for you to like me; I am a failure. Father would rather have Harry as a son. He was a bloody baby and defeated the Dark Lord. All I have is this ‘power of choice’ nonsense from a crazy old man.”

“He’s right.”

“Sorry?” Draco’s head snapped up.

“Ollivander is right. You choose when you die. I am here because of choices you will make. Your destiny is not to be your father.”

“But that is what I want!” Draco shouted at her. “That is all I want! And I keep failing! I could not even get the right wand! What happens tomorrow if I don’t get into Slytherin? What if I am a Hufflepuff?!” Draco was crying openly. “And now you only talk to me to get to Harry Potter!”

Draco’s Reaper was across the room in an instant. When she first tried to wrap her arms around him, Draco pushed her away. It was token resistance. He sank into her chest a moment later when she sat on the bed beside him.

“You own the Malfoy name, Draco. It is yours to make whatever you want. Do not become your father, Draco. Be you.”

“I don’t wanna be me,” Draco sniffled into her chest.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

Draco nodded.

“Today was the first time I’ve ever been proud of you. When I asked for your trust, your father would have denied me. Your father would have walked out the door, but you didn’t.”

“You said you needed me.”

“You put me first, Draco. You put me first. See, I know you.” She wrapped her arms tighter around him and rested her chin atop his head. “I lived a life in another universe. I see it all like memories. My first time at Flourish and Blotts is one of the happiest. When I saw you there today, then when I saw you getting fitted for robes, it made me miss being able to do that. Then I realized my purpose here is to help you do that, to help you experience these things so you make the right choices. Mr. Ollivander is right that your power does not come from strength, Draco. Your power comes from deference, from respect.

"And you were right, I did know Harry.”

“Did you know me?”

“We were at Hogwarts together,” she admitted.

“Am I in Slytherin?”

“You are whatever you choose to be. That’s your power, can’t you see? The Draco I know is terrible. We hated each other. We frightened each other. But today you proved that the one good thing about you there is still with you here.”

“What’s that?”

“You always do the right thing in the end, Draco. Always. Not out of self-preservation, but because you know the kind of man you really want to be. And you know what?”

“What?”

“It isn’t your father.”

They sat in silence for several minutes.

“I do not really think your hair is stupid,” Draco admitted. His Reaper laughed.

“You know you can trust me, right? You will do some messed-up shit, Draco Malfoy, and I will let you. But don’t ever think I won’t be here to guide you through all of it. I think that’s my mission, after all.”

“You don’t know?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I don’t know much of anything about what I am or why I’m here.”

“That makes two of us,” Draco quipped sleepily. She laughed again. The last thing Draco said before falling asleep was,

“I do not hate you anymore …”

“Granger,” she sighed. “That’s what you call me.”

“Mhmm … ‘range ….” He began to snore softly.

**.oOo.**

Draco dreamed about a cabinet.

Everything was dark except for a cabinet on the far side of a strange room, illuminated by an unseen light. Suddenly, a small blue bird appeared inside. Then another. Then another and another.

As the blue birds multiplied, some of them did not come out quite right. Beaks appeared, unattached to anything. Feathers rained down from upper shelves until the cabinet was stuffed to the max. There was an incessant chirping that increased in decibel with each new round of birds.

Bird parts began spilling out of the cabinet, filling the room like puddles. More and more birds appeared, forcing the others out of the cabinet and into piles on the floor. It was then Draco realized that not all the birds were alive. Some of them were whole but still: dead. A wing floated down from the ceiling and landed on the crown of Draco’s head. He yelped but they kept multiplying. The pile creeped slowly and slowly toward Draco. As it grew, he found himself pounding on the walls.

“Help me! Help!” he shouted to no avail.

When the birds finally reached him, they began to peck at his legs. He yelped in pain, but with his back pressed against the wall there was nowhere for him to go. The room was stuffed with birds. Birds pecking other birds. Half-birds covered in feathers from other birds, and various piles nearly reached the ceiling. More and more birds kept appearing in the cabinet, forcing the pile higher until Draco was drowning in feathers. Once they reached his shoulders, he accepted that he was about to die, and only hoped his father would not be too upset with his mother for producing a failed heir.

Then, out of nowhere, a familiar hand appeared. It was attached to a sleeved arm which wrapped around his shoulders.

Draco awoke with a start to feel his Reapers’ arms still around him.

“Granger!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and criticism are always helpful. Hermione remembers her life in the canon universe, but there's no mystical being that tells Reapers what they're supposed to do. She starts guiding Draco based off the narrative in her head, the narrative we know. The question then becomes, how much does Draco change?


	5. IV: Sorted out of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: "Author is Very Much in Love with Blaise Zabini"  
> Alternate title: "Draco Malfoy is also Very Much in Love with Blaise Zabini"  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies up front, I don't have a beta, so please forgive any spelling and grammar mistakes. (I also tried to keep this chapter as canonically compliant as possible.)

“You want me to what?”

Still shaken from the prior night’s dream, his hands tightened around the cart’s handle and he looked at his parents with open skepticism. When they continued to point at the wall, Draco turned to his Reaper and asked,

“Are they mad? Am I really supposed to run through that wall?”

“Yes, and you’d best hurry up if you want a good seat,” Granger replied, caught somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“Alright then,” Draco said as he readied himself for what appeared to be an embarrassing situation. His parents wouldn’t allow him to crash and fall on his bum in front of the five-dozen Muggles milling about the platform, right? His mother wrapped a hand around his shoulder.

“Your father and I will not be around to remind you not to talk to things that are not there.” She turned her gaze in the direction of the Reaper and continued. “You need to stop inserting yourself into Draco’s life. You are a guide, not his friend.”

“I am whatever Draco wants me to be. And I am not,” Granger emphasized, “a thing.”

Draco caught her eyes and nodded in silent agreement. The gesture did not go unnoticed, as his mother narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“What did she say?”

“Nothing, Mother,” Draco brushed it off. “She doesn’t talk to me, you know that.”

His father knew him too well.

“You know I can tell when you are lying, my son.”

And Draco hated that trick. His father operated under the delusion “my son” acted as a subtle reminder of Draco’s duty to the Malfoy name. Family comes first, after all, and “my son” was a nasty subliminal trick to ensure Draco’s loyalty. But it was only proprietary. “My son,” like Draco had no agency, no will of his own.

Since he preferred to be quite literally anywhere else, Draco ran at the wall, cart first. He realized his parents had not followed him through to Platform 9 ¾ and let out a sigh of relief. But his breath caught in his throat when he saw the scarlet steam engine. As Draco stared at the Hogwarts Express, he realized he really was about to leave. That train would take him to a part of his life he could live without the influence of his parents. While it scared him, Draco would much rather face Hogwarts than his parents’ displeasure back at King’s Cross.

The Malfoys arrived early enough so most of the train’s compartments were empty. Draco chose one toward the front and sprawled out on one of the benches, without a care for the world.

“It’ll be another twenty minutes before the train really starts to fill up,” Granger said from the other bench.

“If I am sorted into Hufflepuff, I think I will stay at Hogwarts over Christmas. Father may never speak to me again so I will move to France over the summer and change my name. Do you believe Beauxbatons will accept me if I am not a Malfoy?”

His Reaper sighed.

“When I first met you, or, well, other you, I knew you were awful. But I never, not for a moment, believed you to be this stupid.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and scrunched his nose.

“Stupid? Stupid?! I read all your books, have been studying potions for five years, fly better than probably anyone in my class, and I speak two languages! Where do you get off calling me stupid?” He was heaving as he finished. He kicked at the side of the bench in anger, but Ganger was unaffected.

“Because you are so worried about things you have the power to change. Over and over, Draco, you’ve been told the choices you make will change the world. It’s not just the one that kills you.”

Draco paled at the crassness.

“Every choice you make leads us to that one. You think everything about you is foretold?” she continued. “That every move you make has been decided? No. You choose who you become, Draco. The Sorting Hat listens to you. It sees your skills but you have to tell it what you want, something you have never been shy about.

“And you think you know what it means to be a Malfoy? I don’t believe you do. I don’t think you understand, Draco, that you are more than your name. You are more than your father’s son! Being a Malfoy means exactly what you choose for it to mean. The sooner you start actually making choices instead of doing what everyone wants you to do, the sooner you’ll feel like a true Malfoy.”

After a long pause, Draco quipped, “You been holding that in awhile?” Before he could add, “Where was this wisdom the last eleven bloody years?” he was overcome by a sudden warmth. Draco lifted his legs off the bench and swung around to rest his feet on the floor. Without glancing toward the compartment door he said,

“Blaise is here.”

He and Draco each had an instant effect on people. While Draco was all about the arresting visual, Blaise’s exceptional quality was how he made people feel. His aura preceded him into a room. There was something very inviting about him, but all his elegance concealed a potent wrath. Hidden like a snake: perfectly still until a rabbit gets close enough to strike.

Blaise had a very sure presence for an eleven-year-old. Draco always thought of him as autumn, the natural complement to his own wintry disposition. Blaise had cinnamon-coloured eyes, dark brown with flecks of an even deeper umber. His skin was the colour of acorn shells and everything about him was comfortably warm. It was as though Blaise was made of the Earth itself and the universe always put him exactly where he needed to be. He seemed to have found the compartment without issue.

“Draco?” Blaise asked as he slid open the compartment door.

“Blaise!” Draco leapt up to hug him. “It’s so good to see you. I missed you. How’s your mum?”

“Fine. Number six is still alive, but I don’t believe he’s the keeper.”

Draco nodded in friendly agreement before Blaise tried to sit on the bench directly across from him.

“Not there!” he shouted, as Blaise nearly sat atop Granger.

“Why not?” Blaise asked skeptically.

“My Reaper is right there.”

“Oh,” Blaise said before sitting down to Granger’s left. “Draco?”

“Yeah?”

“How will you make this work? She can’t have her own seat everywhere.”

Draco shrugged.

“I hadn’t given it much thought. Mother actually said something back at the station, but I really don’t know. It will be fine, right?” Draco was openly pleading for reassurance.

“Not if you talk to her in front of other people. Not if you save her a seat at the table or you somehow know answers we haven’t even learned yet.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Draco scoffed. “Granger would never cheat.”

“Granger?”

“That’s her name.”

“She has a name now?” Blaise raised an eyebrow.

Before Draco could respond, two dunderheads began forcing their way into the compartment. In private, Draco referred to them as his security detail. (That’s all they were good for.) He shot a panicked look at Blaise. No way could he last eight hours on a train with Crabbe and Goyle.

“What’re you doing?” Blaise asked them.

“Wanted somewhere to sit,” Crabbe said.

“Well there’s already three of us in here, so look elsewhere.”

“I don’t see nuffin’ there,” Goyle nodded toward Blaise’s left. Blaise rolled his eyes and pointed to himself, then Granger (whom he could not see), then Draco.

“One, two, three. What are you missing?” Blaise said. He nodded at Draco to play along.

“Yeah,” he added unhelpfully. “Perhaps you two should get your eyes checked. There are clearly three of us.”

Granger could not hold back a smile, and Draco smiled back. Crabbe and Goyle began mumbling to each other about the train filling up. As they left Blaise shouted,

“Go find some luggage racks to stuff yourselves into,” before closing the door behind them.

“After one visit, my mum said those two must have Floo powder for brains and number four said that was an insult to Floo powder. I swear that joke kept him alive another month.”

And so it was, as natural as it had always been. When Pansy arrived, Draco insisted she sit next to him. He did not miss the glare Granger directed her way, but he did not care. These were his best friends, and they lived a separate drama from their peers.

Five hours into the trip, Draco saw fit to ask, “Blaise? Why are you okay with your mum killing people?”

Blaise shrugged.

“I don’t have another option, do I?” When Draco did not respond, Blaise continued. “If I start to care, I’ll have to look at her differently. Mum is the only family I’ve got. If I can’t be with her, where would I go?”

“Pans and I would always—“

“You and Pansy would do nothing,” Blaise insisted. “Leaving mum would mean leaving the Death Eater life, Draco. You think your parents or Pansy’s’ grandmother would take me in as a blood traitor?”

When Draco didn’t respond and Pansy shook her head in a violent “No!” Blaise continued.

“Mum may be a killer, but she’s the only way I survive. Do you even ask about your parents and how many people they’ve killed?”

“No,” Draco shook his head. “Never.”

“Because it’s easier just not to care,” Pansy chimed in. “I love grandmum and grandmum loves me. What she does outside of that can’t be my problem, right?”

Blaise nodded in agreement and said.

“Mum always says, ‘Take anything and everything someone is willing to give you.’ Her little motto from the war.”

“Grandmum’s is ‘Traitors are just as dirty as Mudbloods,’” Pansy said. Draco noticed that his Reaper tried desperately to shrink into the corner. “But I’m not sure that’s from the war so much as it’s just Grandmum.”

“What’s it your parents say to you, Draco? I’m sure the Malfoys have a dark creed they try to force into you.” There was a bite to Blaise’s tone just then and he flicked a chocolate frog card at the window.

Draco never thought of it that way before. Did everyone who fought alongside the Dark Lord have a saying? A way to focus on a mission that seemed so far removed from his own reality?

“Never bend.”

Which was a little different. Not that Pansy or Blaise would say anything, but it was written in their faces. What does it mean that the Malfoy family motto is about staying true to your own self-interest, while the others were about staying loyal to the dark cause?

“What does that mean?” Blaise asked.

“It means we bow to no one,” Draco answered.

“Not even the Dark Lord?” Pansy said, gasping and clutching her chest. She always was a drama queen.

“Huh,” Draco wondered aloud.

“No,” Granger said.

Malfoy, careful not to turn his head toward her under Pansy’s intense scrutiny, raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Really?”

“Not even him,” she insisted.

**.oOo.**

The Hogwarts platform was crowded and freezing.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!” rang out, so Draco, Blaise, and Pansy made their way toward the giant manservant with the lantern. He led them down a steep, narrow path, so the rows of four were cramming into a space hardly built for three.

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” the giant called over his shoulder,” jus’ round this bend here.”

Then the path opened onto a great black lake. On the other side was a vast castle with many turrets and towers, its windows twinkling with light from the stars above. Pansy nudged him playfully and said,

“A bit bigger than your place, Draco?”

He shrugged, stuck his nose up in the air, and did his best impression of his father.

“Yes, it is a tad larger than the manor, which makes it a fine school for my son. Where he shall be sorted into Slytherin house and thereby live and sleep in the finest castle dungeon this side of the Atlantic.”

All three of them burst into laughter before stepping into one of the boats.

“Everyone in?” the giant shouted, in a boat to himself. “Right then—FORWARD!”

And the fleet of little boats moved all at once, gliding across the lake, which was smooth as glass. Everyone silently stared at the castle looming over them. For awhile, Draco was stone-still because that castle was terrifying. He would walk right through those doors and into the first real test he would face to determine whether he could be a Malfoy at all. No matter what his Reaper said, all Malfoys get sorted into Slytherin. It is tradition.

“Choices, Draco,” she said. Draco jumped and nearly tipped the boat, not having realized his Reaper had gotten in with them. Pansy and Blaise shot him annoyed glances as she continued.

“I know you’re worried, but don’t be. Just make your choice.”

Before Draco could respond, the manservant shouted, “Heads down!” as the first boats reached the cliff. Everyone ducked their heads as the boats carried them through curtains of ivy draping a gap in the cliff’s face. When they reached a sort of underground harbor, they all clambered out of the boats, onto the rocks and pebbles. Then they followed the giant (Half-giant? Father said giants were at least ten feet tall.) onto smooth, damp grass in the castle’s shadow. They walked up a flight of stairs and finally stopped at a huge oak front door.

The man raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door. It swung open at once to reveal a tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes. She had a stern face that reminded Draco of his mother, but her presence felt rather adversarial. He thought he might like her but would never dare cross her.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” the great oaf introduced them.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

So that was Harry Potter’s friend, Hagrid, Draco observed as Professor McGonagall pulled the doors open wide. The entrance hall was roughly the size of the manor’s greenhouse. The stone walls were lit by torches, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a marble staircase led to the upper floors.

“This really is a little like home for you,” Blaise whispered.

It was, but that did nothing to put Draco at ease. They followed the professor across the stone floor, and hundreds of voices filtered through from the doorway on their right. Draco, along with the rest of the first years, was shuffled into a small chamber off the hall. They nervously crowded together as Professor McGonagall said,

“Welcome to Hogwarts. The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend time in your House common room.”

She said more things, but Draco was too nervous to really hear them. The pit in his stomach seemed to grow even wider when she said,

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

She looked disapprovingly at one boy’s cloak, which was fastened under his left ear.  _Idiot_. Blaise and Pansy appeared perfectly nonchalant, as did Draco, but it felt like his stomach was caving in. He’d heard about the great Hogwarts feasts but his appetite seemed to have fled.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”

Shortly after she left, several people screamed.

“Mudbloods,” Pansy rolled her eyes. “It’s like they’ve never seen a ghost before.”

About twenty pearly-white ghosts streamed through the walls. They were talking to each other and, at first, hardly spared a glance for the first years. A fat, transparent monk was arguing with a taller ghost who insisted,

“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he’s not even really a ghost—I say, what are you all doing here?”

No one answered as he finally noticed the first years. The Fat Friar smiled then and exclaimed,

“New students! About to be Sorted, I suppose?”

A few students nodded, but Draco just stared straight ahead, focusing on everything he’d learned from his parents. They were both in Slytherin, so act like them and get in, right?

“Hope to see you in Huffle—Who are you?” The ghost had been distracted by someone in the far corner. Students stood on their toes to see whom he was speaking to, but several of them started whispering to those in the back that there was no one there.

“You are no first year,” the tall ghost in the ruff said to the empty space. “What are you?”

“You can see me?” a voice answered.

Oh, no. Draco knew that voice. Blaise raised an eyebrow at Draco’s reaction and muttered,

“I would not have guessed that.”

Sure enough, the ghosts were crowded around Granger, muttering to each other until a small voice rang out.

“I know exactly what she is.”

The Grey Lady tentatively stepped tentatively toward the Reaper. But before she could out Granger, Professor McGonagall re-entered the chamber.

“Move along now, the Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.”

As the ghosts filed through the wall, the Grey Lady remained at Granger’s side.

“Now form a line and follow me,” Professor McGonagall instructed.

Draco took a place in the line, sandwiched between Blaise at his front and Pansy at his back. He could see Harry Potter up ahead, and Draco was grateful there would be at least one bigger story if he failed to get into Slytherin.

As the line moved forward, Draco’s Reaper ran up to him and touched his shoulder. He looked at her instinctively, before remembering he shouldn’t look at things other people can’t see. She kept walking at his side as they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

It was roughly the size of the manor’s ballroom, perhaps a tad larger. The Great Hall was lit by thousands and thousands of candles floating in midair over four long tables where the rest of the students sat, staring. If any of Draco’s appetite remained at that point, it vanished. At the top of the hall was another long table, perpendicular to the others, where the teachers sat. Professor McGonagall led the students up there so they faced their peers.

Draco looked heavenward in exasperation. The ceiling was, well, not there. In its place was a velvety black sky dotted with stars.

“It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. Which you’d know if you read  _Hogwarts: A History_ ,” Granger quipped. Draco rolled his eyes.

Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of them. Granger placed a hand on his shoulder, which Draco was beginning to appreciate. She used the gesture to alert him of her presence.

“This is where I leave you,” she said. When Draco’s face rapidly drained of its colour, she assumed Draco thought he was about to die. Be suffocated by the hat, maybe? Death by Sorting? “No, no, not like that. You’ll be fine, Draco. You’ll be fine. Just remember what I said. Make your choice.”

Then she walked down the hall and out the doors. While the hundreds of pairs of eyes did not move from him as she left, Draco felt truly alone. His Reaper was always there and, suddenly, she just walked away. No one turned their heads toward her. Some ghosts watched her pass by in confusion but said nothing. The lack of reaction made Draco feel more isolated than ever.

Then Professor McGonagall placed a pointed wizard’s hat atop the stool. It was much dirtier than Draco imagined and he hoped his sorting would be over quickly so as to not mess up his hair. A thought that intensified when the thing began to sing.

 _Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.

 _You can keep your bowlers black,_  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.

 _There's nothing hidden in your head_  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.

 _You might belong in Gryffindor,_  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;

 _You might belong in Hufflepuff,_  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;

 _Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;

 _Or perhaps in Slytherin_  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folks use any means  
To achieve their ends.

 _So put me on! Don't be afraid!_  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!" 

The hall burst into applause and the hat bowed to each of the four tables in turn. Professor McGonagall stepped forward, then, holding a long roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbot, Hannah!”

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, and Draco knew immediately he would not share a House with her. Just instinctively, there was no way they could share a home. Her name meant she was part of the Sacred 28, but she was so … Innocent-looking? Her whole demeanor said she lived a different sort of life from Draco and his friends. She put on the hat, which fell past her eyes, and sat on the stool.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” Shouted the hat.

A table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah took her seat.

“Bones, Susan!” McGonagall called.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat shouted again. Draco groaned.

“Pans, what if we’re all Hufflepuffs?”

“Can they do that?” Pansy gasped.

But then Terry Boot went to Ravenclaw and Millicent Bulstrode went to Slytherin, so everything was fine. Though, candidly, Draco much preferred that Hannah girl to Millicent.

Draco started to feel a little faint when Professor McGonagall called for Neville Longbottom, but Morag MacDougal gave him a few moments of reprieve. When she shouted his name, “Malfoy, Draco,” the Slytherin table on his far right collectively leaned closer.

No pressure.

Draco took a deep breath and Blaise squeezed his hand to wish him luck. He straightened his spine and swaggered his way to the stool. He totally had this. His hands were definitely not shaking as he put on the hat.

“Slyth—“ but the hat stopped abruptly as Draco sat down.

 _No, no, keep going!_  He begged the hat. Oh, he was so close.

“Hmm,” the hat muttered. “Much more difficult than your father.”

_Story of my life._

“Is it, now? Curious, yes. You are a slippery one, aren’t you? Entitled, arrogant, but Ravenclaw would help mold you into a mind that could reshape the world. That’s your destiny after all, isn’t it?”

_How do you know about that?_

“It’s all here, in your head. You have a stroke of bravery and a need to prove yourself. Ah, but only to those who matter, is that right?”

_Well, yeah, actually._

The Slytherin table began to whisper, undoubtedly wondering what was taking so long.

“So where to put you?”

 _Slytherin_ , Draco thought without hesitation.

“Your Reaper, now, she’s a Gryffindor. Why shouldn’t you be the same?”

Draco finally realized what Granger had been meaning to tell him: anyone could fit anywhere. He could be brave or loyal to a fault and he was wicked smart.

_The characteristics you prize most determine where you land. _My destiny lies in my name and it is what I choose to make it. Family and loyalty are the most important things to me. Wherever that lands me, so be it.__

“SLYTHERIN!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghosts can see Reapers because Reapers exist in both existential planes: the physical world (ours) and the astral one. Hermione isn't tied to either one and can float between them at will. (Sometimes Draco can touch her and other times he can't.) Draco is the thing tethering her to the physical realm, so she's limited to his space. That's why Bellatrix could see her through Draco's mind but not her own, and only super strong reactions from Hermione can prompt physical magic. (The chair explosion a couple chapters ago is an example.) 
> 
> Thank you all for reading this far and I hope this character study keeps engaging you!


	6. V: Learn to be Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [First weeks at Hogwarts montage]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank y'all for recc'ing this fic and for sticking with it, because it's a lot longer than I intended. I've blocked out the rest of the six books and have pretty well got it narrowed down to 25 chapters.

Detention.

Not even one term in and Harry Potter already landed Draco in detention. Sure, he had technically broken school rules, but—

Wait. Hold up. Rewind.

Hogwarts is great. The staircases move of their own accord, and seeing as only one leads down to the dungeon, you have to hit it at the right time, otherwise it’ll be a long wait for it to change back. Draco thinks that staircase has a fondness for Blaise, whose arrival always seemed to get the stairs to lead back to the Slytherin common room. But otherwise, Hogwarts was great.

Draco’s first day in Potions could not have gone better. Professor Snape, though unwelcome in appearance, seemed to have pegged Draco as a favourite. He also had a particular disdain for Harry Potter.

“Clearly, fame isn’t everything,” the professor quipped.

Yes, Draco smiled at that, because while most of the school was fixated on Harry Potter being a Gryffindor, much of Slytherin House still wondered aloud at why the Sorting Hat had taken so long to place him in the House where he was the legacy to end legacies. They were loud whispers, too. The kind of whisper the speaker hopes is heard by the subject. Blaise asked Draco about it as soon as the feast began after the Sorting.

At first, Draco just pretended not to hear, but the second time Blaise asked,

“Why did the hat take so long?”

Draco shrugged.

“It knows things.”

“It knows things?” Blaise asked, unamused.

“It knows about certain things,” Draco nodded toward Pansy to indicate he was afraid to say too much. “It said a lot about my destiny and that I could fit in just about anywhere.” He scooted closer to Blaise and continued. “It said I was different from what it expected. It said Granger is a Gryffindor, but how would it know that?”

“Well …” Blaise thought for a minute. “She’s in your head, right? People can see her through you. The hat could see everything in your head and used that to make a determination. So it could see her and maybe it Sorted her too?”

“Huh,” Draco muttered. “That almost makes sense.”

Blaise shrugged.

“I’m a sensible person.”

“I wonder why the ghosts can see her, though. It does not make any sense.”

“For someone so smart you can be rather stupid.”

“Yes!” Pansy quickly interjected before returning to her conversation.

“See, ghosts exist on another plane. But Granger, she can touch you; she can touch things. She’s not a ghost and she’s not actually inside your head. So she exists somewhere between the astral plane and the physical one. Her whole job is to guide you through life to death, so all she is doing is helping you get from one plane to another, right? Ghosts can see her, and maybe even people here can see her. You are the conduit between planes of existence for her.”

Draco just stared at Blaise for a minute, dumbfounded.

“How can you possibly know that? How did you figure that out?”

Blaise sighed.

“All I had to do was put pieces together. I know that she is not a ghost, but what is a Reaper? Who sent her? Those are the questions you need to ask.”

**.oOo.**

But Draco did not want the answers, and even if he did he would not know whom to ask. Granger said she was whatever Draco wanted her to be. Part of him simply wanted her gone so he could live life like a normal child. Then his inner Malfoy reminded him he should never aspire to normalcy because it was beneath him. Life is hard for those destined to be noteworthy. Could Granger be a mentor? A friend?

His Reaper stayed well away until his first day in Charms. Slytherins shared that class with Ravenclaw House, and Draco desperately wanted to succeed before anyone else. They were all equally new to wand work, so the first task was very simple. Each student was presented with a thin, almost wilted white feather. The task was to make it float in the air above their sightline.

Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the room to observe as the students first attempted the incantation.

“Wing-ar-dium Leviosa!” Draco muttered.

Professor Flitwick rotated his wrist and instructed the class to “swish and flick!” which Draco repeated effortlessly but to no avail. He accented the proper portions of the spell, but nothing worked. Pansy, a row in front of Draco, had taken a strictly “flick” approach and appeared to be rapidly de-threading her feather. At Draco’s right, Blaise’s mouth twitched upward for a moment as he fought back a smile.

_Swish and flick!_

Nothing.

 _Swish_  (“Wingardium”)  _and flick!_  (“Leviosa!”)

Still nothing.

“You’re doing it properly.”

Draco yelped as Granger appeared over his shoulder to voice her curiosity. The other students looked at him, momentarily put-off.

“What are you looking at?” Draco snapped at them.

They all once again bent over their feathers, but kept muttering. Not all of which ended in “Leviosa.”

“You are doing it properly,” she repeated.

Draco rolled his eyes, unable to vocalize his annoyance. His grip tightened on his wand. The first few classes had gone so well. All the tutoring he’d been given throughout his life coupled with Granger’s insisted reading, Draco already had a solid foundation of knowledge to work from. The actual practice of magic, though, left him in the dark to struggle alongside his classmates as they learned to use their wands. So, like the rest, he continued swishing and flicking.

“It should be floating,” Granger muttered, hovering over Draco, which certainly did not make him nervous.  _Swish and flick._  “It’s nothing in the hand motion and you’re saying the incantation properly …” She trailed off and her voice softened.

“Draco … do you not trust your wand?”

Merlin’s pants. Draco was convinced she had direct access to his brain. Of course he did not love his wand. He thought a few times about breaking it and saying, “Oops!” (But getting a new wand would take time and he refused to fall behind in any of his courses.) His wand was weak and that was embarrassing.

“You want to be first to fly a feather? I know you do,” and Draco nodded almost imperceptibly. “Trust your wand. It is not weak, it’s loyal. That means you will only get out of it what you give to it. You’re lucky the feather has yet to catch fire.

“And I know you want to put the Ravenclaws in their place. Show them they don’t have a monopoly on intellect. Trust in your wand and see what it can do.”

Granger was persistent. As his peers kept bungling the spell, Draco placed his wand on the table in front of him. He took a deep breath and thought about what his Reaper said. Maybe the most powerful magic wasn’t the best. If a wand is loyal to its owner, it may not be the best at everything, but it will do its best at everything. That is not true of most wands.

With a little more confidence and a much more pronounced tremble in his hand, Draco picked up his wand. He took a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, before swishing and flicking.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

The light white feather rose a little bit, hovered, and then fell back to the table.

“How the hell did you do that?” Blaise asked, exasperated.

Draco ignored him and focused all his energy on his wand. Make or break, now or never, that feather needed to fly. See, the wand chooses the wizard because it is an extension of them. You don’t get to choose who you are at your core, you must do the best with what you are given. It is your decisions that shape the world, and Draco decided in that moment he would be first.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he said, accompanied by a confident swish and flick.

The ascent was hesitant at first. As the core of the feather rose, its tips seemed to cling to the table as if attracted by magnets. But when Draco angled his wand higher it broke free! Blaise and a couple surrounding students noticed first. As he angled his wand even higher, they smacked the students around them and began to point.

Draco’s confidence soared to (quite literal) new heights. Soon, the feather was past eye-level and above his head. As it rose, Professor Flitwick clapped.

“Well done, Master Malfoy!”

Draco felt a hand cup his shoulder and knew, without looking backward, that his Reaper wore a satisfied smile mirroring his own.

**.oOo.**

Blaise never liked flying.

“Why would I ride a broom when I’ll be able to Floo or Apparate anywhere?” he whined as they stood on the grass outside of the castle alongside the Gryffindors. "And who the hell thought it was a good idea to give us flying lessons at the end of October? I'm freezing!"

Madam Hooch arrived shortly thereafter. She had short grey hair and eyes like a hawk. It was rather cold, and Draco had to admit it was not the best weather for flying. Madam Hooch shouted,

“What are you all waiting for? Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up!”

Draco glanced down at his assigned broom. It was the most hideous broomstick he’d ever seen. The twigs went in a myriad of directions and the handle was made of a less resilient wood, so Draco knew the thing would be practically impossible to steer. He’d be adrift within minutes.

Whatever.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom and say, “Up!” Madam Hooch instructed, as though they were a bunch of idiots who had never seen a broom before.

“UP!” they all shouted.

Draco’s confident smile vanished upon seeing that Harry Potter, too, succeeded on his first attempt to retrieve the broomstick. Pansy could not have been more disinterested and that rather dull one (Neville, was it?) sounded as though the mere thought of levitating off the ground terrified him. What a waste of pure blood.

“You’re going to want to be an idiot soon,” Granger appeared next to Madam Hooch. “Don’t.”

They were nearly seven weeks into term then, and Draco was annoyed by his Reaper’s constant psychic interludes. The feather talk was helpful, and he even thanked her for it once they were out of everyone’s sight. Then she became overbearing. So what if in Potions he grabbed a frog’s eye instead of a newt’s? Of course his caterpillar could have made a better spoon in Transfiguration, but he was successful. How was he supposed to learn with all that narration? The presumption that she knew how he would feel or what he would do in any given situation was absurd. She was from a different place, knew a different Draco, and for all her preaching about making his own choices she had a hell of a lot to say about them. 

But what frustrated him most was his inability to respond. Granger could say anything, do anything, and as long as Draco was around others he just had to take it. Rage, like the great well in his soul was quickly filling up with torrential rain and with no other outlet it could very well overflow.

Madam Hooch explained to the students how to mount their brooms, and Longbottom tripped over his own feet. As the professor walked up the line correcting students’ grips, she walked by Draco with nothing to say. He smirked at Granger and she rolled her eyes.

Then Madam Hooch returned to correct him. He deflated. Confidence is nothing if you cannot back it up, and this was one more thing for Granger to hold over his head.

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” Madam Hooch instructed. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—“

Longbottom took off. He rose rapidly toward the sky and his face had drained of its colour. He clearly had no control, and once he was twenty feet in the air he slipped right over the handle.

WHAM!

Draco and Blaise winced simultaneously at the sound of cracking bone. Longbottom’s broomstick continued to rise and lazily drift toward the Forbidden Forest. Once Madam Hooch diagnosed it,

“Broken wrist. Come on, boy, it’s alright. Up you get.”

Draco sniggered. Blaise elbowed him and he stopped, but it was funny. Flying a broom was as basic to Draco as breathing. It was instinctive. How could anyone be so terrible at it?

“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch.’”

Once they were out of earshot, Draco could no longer hold in his laughter. The remaining Slytherins chuckled as well. Some people are uncoordinated, certainly, but Neville’s fall was laughably bad. That he had only broken a wrist was impressive.

“Did you see his face?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” one of the Patil twins said. Padma or Parvati, he couldn’t be bothered to remember which.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom!” Pansy interjected. “Never thought you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.”

Parvati!

Draco spotted Neville’s Remembrall in the grass. He picked it up and laughed even harder because, no, it could not get more ridiculous.

“Look!” he said as he held it aloft. “It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s grandmother sent him.”

“Give that here, Malfoy,” someone said, barely above a whisper.

“Draco, give it to him,” Granger insisted.

Draco turned around to see his Reaper standing behind Harry Potter. At that point, all those rage-induced waves spilled over.

“No,” he responded to them both aloud.

Draco leapt onto his broomstick and said,

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find.” He rose to the top of a tall oak and asked, “How about inside a tree?”

“Give it here!” Potter shouted from the ground.

Draco shrugged, indifferent to Potter’s wishes. In the distance, Granger stood just where he left her, arms crossed with what Draco assumed was a look of frustration. Potter hopped on his broom and was a very good flyer for someone who had never been on a broom. Soon, they were on the same level and Potter shouted,

“Give it here or I’ll knock you off your broom!”

“Oh yeah?” Draco taunted. “Best be careful your first time on a broom, Potter. One wrong move and you’ll end up like your parents!”

He did not really mean that; it was immature, misplaced rage talking. But Harry Potter did not know that, nor would he have cared. He rushed Draco, who swerved out of the way in the nick of time.

“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck,” Potter called from above.

Draco looked down and, briefly, wondered what it would be like if he allowed Potter to push him. The fall would hurt, but for how long? How would that change the world? He had to wonder then, would Granger lead him through Death even if she was angry? Even if she thought he should have tried harder to stay alive? Could she choose to forsake him?

Blaise would say those were good questions.

Draco hated them. He channeled his frustration into a throw instead, tossing the Remembrall as far as he could back toward the castle. Potter took off after it, Draco finding him increasingly predictable. Draco slowly descended to the ground, and he immediately felt disapproval emanating from his Reaper. She was there to accompany his minute-long walk back to the rest of his classmates.

“I told you not to be an idiot,” Granger quipped.

Draco rounded on her and began shouting.

“Will you go the hell away? Can I go to class without you there? Seven weeks into this, Granger, seven weeks! Leave me the hell alone!”

“Draco!” she reprimanded. Before he could reply she continued, “You cannot yell at me. Do not yell at me. Your classmates will start to ask questions you don’t want to answer.”

He looked at his classmates several hundred yards away, all their backs were turned to him as they focused on Harry Potter returning from his “heroic rescue.”

“Maybe I want them to know,” Draco said as he restarted his walk.

“Why?” Granger asked.

Draco did not feel like satisfying her with an answer. She sped up, stood in front of him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Why?” she demanded again.

“You know why. Why would you even ask?” He bumped Granger as he shouldered past.

“Because I don’t know. I know what I think about you, but I hope I’m wrong.”

“Have you been wrong?” Draco whispered candidly as they gradually got closer to the group of students.

“Yes.”

Draco stopped and stared at her for a moment. He sighed, most of his anger having disappeared twenty feet in the air.

“I can see how this goes. My friends and my House like me, and that is all I really want. But Harry Potter does not like me, and everyone else likes Harry Potter. What does that make me? The bully? The villain?”

“Yes and no. Harry doesn’t like you because you think you’re better than everyone else.”

“I am.”

“Because you’re a pureblood?” she asked, disgusted.

“No, because I am a Malfoy. What does Potter care about Mudbloods for, anyway?”

“Do not use that word!” she shouted, suddenly irate.

Draco immediately flashed back to the only other time he’d seen his Reaper so incensed. Sparks flew from her fingertips, her body unable to contain so much of both rage and magic. It was exactly the same as last time, and back then her magic ripped apart a solid-wood chair like it was nothing. He tried to remember what set her off.

_Father must have killed the right people … Maybe they were only Muggles._

“Mudblood?” he clarified aloud.

That is the last thing he remembers. Well, almost. His Reaper had never actually scared him before. Draco had been angry at her and grateful to her, along with everything between. But just then she looked terrifyingly out of control. Sparks of multicoloured magic spun down the corkscrews of her curls. The whites of her eyes went black and her entire body began to shake, like she was trying to withhold whatever was about to happen.

The ghosts would later fill the staff in on the story which, of course, revealed the existence of Draco’s Reaper. They all agreed not to mention it, but they looked at Draco differently afterward. With open curiosity as to how this boy, of them all, would change the course of history.

Granger’s anger led to a powerful combination of senseless rage and tightly-wound magic, and when set free that magic forced everyone nearby off their feet. The castle grounds shook with the force of the blast, and its intended target was thrown several dozen yards into the distance.

Draco did not feel his head hit the ground. He felt the pain in the rest of his body but it was like those nerve endings in his skull were overloaded. His Reaper rushed over to him, looking normal again, fear and regret evident in her eyes.

“Draco? Draco?” she cradled his head, worried.

He shoved her off and stood, a little dizzily. As he walked back toward his classmates Draco told her again,

“Leave me alone.”

He did not see Granger shake her head because he was focused on Professor McGonagall storming out of the castle. His outer vision blurred, and suddenly it was like he was looking at her through a telescope. She got close enough to shout,

“Potter! Malfoy! Detention!”

And Draco collapsed.

**.oOo.**

Draco had taken the hit, and being so forcefully slammed into the ground made a Remembrall-sized dent in the left side of his head. Out from that crater spread tiny web-like fractures, giving Draco’s skull the appearance of a cracked window. Madam Pomfrey was horrified and promptly forced some Skelegrow down his throat.

He was unconscious for two days. It was dark outside when he awoke, Madam Pomfrey nowhere to be seen. Granger was at the foot of his hospital bed, and he instinctively pushed away from her. Of course, that required him to move his head which was very much in opposition to that idea. Suddenly, his brain hurt and his head felt very heavy. He fell forward at the waist, his face landing in the mattress.

“Let me help you—“ Granger attempted to hold his shoulders but Draco pushed her away and hoisted himself up.

“Help me?” he croaked out, clearly in need of water. “You did this.”

“I wouldn’t have lost control if you weren’t so—“

“Do not put this on me,” his voice cracked. “You lost control, you could have killed me. Maybe that is my destiny: to be killed by my own Reaper.”

“I would never!” Granger insisted.

“Really? What good are you? Confining me to the hospital wing, but you can’t even go to Madam Pomfrey to get me some water, can you? Here to hurt me, but never to help me.”

She appeared both insulted and saddened by that remark. Granger fiddled with her hood before responding.

“Do you know how difficult it is, not using magic? Having it inside you and it’s trapped there? I would rather be in Azkaban. And you, you insufferable, ungrateful, little brat, have the nerve—“

He lost consciousness again and fell back onto the pillows.

He was in the room again, the same room from his nightmare with the cabinet at the opposite end. This time, he sat on the floor, knees pulled tightly to his chest as he stared at the open cabinet. Its only content was a single blue feather as his Reaper’s voice echoed throughout the space. 

> _You would fall asleep now, of course you would. If you only knew… But how could you? I’ve been afraid to tell you for eleven years. I stood by as they taught you what I am, as they made you into this, and I did nothing. I should take full responsibility for this. I began guiding you too late and now you are like them. If I tell you, will you still be willing to listen to me, or will I lose you forever?_

Draco had no idea what she was talking about. 

> _Are you better off without my guidance? Maybe because I don’t know what is about to happen, for once it is different and it’s my fault. I sped this up. You will discover the creature months before you should, and then what?_  
> 
> _I don’t know, Draco. I just wanted to make you better, but maybe it’s not my place. Maybe that’s not my purpose. I don’t know what it is or what I’m supposed to do, but you’re my responsibility somehow and I keep failing you. And now I hurt you. I’m here to guide you, not change you. And it’s time I accept that. You’re right and I should just stay away until you need me._

Which really meant, “I should stay away until you die.”

Her voice cut off in a way that Draco knew meant she pulled her hood up, but Granger did not move. She could not tear herself away from her charge. Draco would look back on this moment as the day Granger realized her guidance is what would change him for the better. The day she realized she cared too much and chose not to challenge it.

Once she stopped talking, Draco was left alone in his dream’s desolate room. That silence and the lack of her presence was eerie. He hugged his knees even tighter to his chest and wondered how long he would be stuck there this time. Draco first experienced true loneliness in that room. Captive in his own mind just as Granger’s magic was trapped inside her, and he hated it.

Even moreso that Granger would not come to rescue him this time specifically because he asked her not to. He told her to stay away and there were consequences, but if she felt like this all the time, then maybe Draco could understand how she lost control. The not knowing, the constant questions, and their acerbic nature. Maybe she deserved forgiveness.

Draco would rather have drowned in bird guts like he nearly did the last time, if it meant he would wake up sooner. There were so many questions he could not answer. The only person he knew to ask was his Reaper, who admitted she knew nothing about why she was there or how Draco was chosen. Who was the last one? Merlin? If there had been any Reapers since, their charges were arse enough to not write it down. Draco wondered how he was supposed to live his life knowing how much was riding on it. Being a Malfoy made him superior, but being entangled with a Reaper made him exceptional. And that which makes you exceptional is inevitably that which must also make you lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that chapter! It was supposed to be very lighthearted and ended up as "Learn to be Lonely" because this whole fic is really depressing. Draco's injury is based on an article I read by Matt Shoemaker, "105 mph to the Head" if you're curious. Comments and criticism are, as always, appreciated.
> 
> Hermione's magic is constrained. Reapers don't have wands and they can't really interact with the world around them outside of their charge. When her anger is directed at or through Draco, though, that's when she can feel it. That's when her magic can spring to life and manifest in the physical world. Blaise's word, "conduit," is the most apt description.


	7. VI: Written in the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homework, sass, and the worst detention ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter moves fairly quickly, and I rearranged some canon events. All phrases, words, and canon plot are property of JK Rowling. I have no beta other than my bff, Spellcheck, so please forgive any errors.

Draco woke the following morning. It was Saturday and his body felt the slightest bit off. Not dissimilar to that full-body jolt you get from waking up too late, followed by a crash of relief upon realizing it is the weekend. He awoke with a sinking feeling something was missing. He opened his eyes and gasped for air, then Madam Pomfrey scurried out with a glass of water. Draco’s eyes darted left and right, and he winced the one time he tried to turn his head.

“Don’t move too much, my dear, the fractures may not have fully healed. Just lie back and drink up,” she said, handing him the cup of water.

Draco did not reach for it until he caught sight of Granger in the corner. Her hood was up, but knowing that she never left him alone made him relax. He took the cup and chugged all the water without stopping to breathe. When he finished he took a deep breath and wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand.

Once Madam Pomfrey left, Blaise entered the hospital wing bearing, oddly enough, exactly what Draco wanted: homework.

“An essay on Gamp’s Law of elemental Transfiguration for McGonagall and one for Sprout about Bouncing Bulbs and Puffapods; one roll of parchment each. Snape waived your assignment, Binns either forgot or does not know you exist, Quirrell was fixing his turban and wasn’t paying attention when I asked.” He paused to breathe. “That’s Transfiguration, Herbology, Potions, History of Magic, and Defense against the Dark Arts. Oh! You’re already ahead in Charms and Astronomy is pointless but you have to fill in this beginners star chart.”

Once Blaise was satisfied Madam Pomfrey was out of earshot, he asked,

“Was it her?”

Draco nodded.

“What happened?’

“She lost control,” Draco answered.

“She lost control?”

Draco nodded again.

“Whatever happened, it shook the grounds so hard even the castle felt the tremors. The professors are telling us it was a small earthquake! A guide does not need that much power, Draco. Why would she have the power to nearly kill you? Who gave it to her?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but got no further as Granger pulled her hood back and strode across the room to his bedside.

“Were you always like this?” Draco asked her.

Blaise gave him an odd look.

“It’s strange seeing you talk to something I know is there, but still, I can’t see it. You look mad. I know you’re not, but you look it.”

“The power is not new, but my inability to control it is,” Granger said, nodding at Blaise to suggest Draco relay the message.

“She says she has always had this much power, but she could control it when she was human.”

“That’s it then, you’ve solved it!” Blaise’s face lit up.

“What?” Granger asked.

“What?” Draco asked aloud, for himself as much as his Reaper.

Blaise rolled his eyes.

“What is the point of her? Everyone dies! The gods of the universe think you are so stupid you can’t read the map? It does not make any sense. So she guides you through life? Again, it doesn’t make sense.”

Draco thought for a moment. He turned to his Reaper and asked,

“You knew me at Hogwarts, but we do not have a Granger here. Why do we not have one of you?”

His Reaper shrugged and Draco collapsed back on the pillows. This conversation made his head ache.

“Did I do something bad?” he asked.

“You did many bad things to people,” Granger confirmed.

“I did terrible things to you,” Draco guessed.

“And others …” Granger trailed off, afraid to give away too much.

Blaise shook his head.

“You keep missing the point,” he interjected. “You misunderstood your relationship from the beginning. The universe put her here to make sure you end up where you are meant to be.”

“When I die,” Draco finished callously.

“And every choice before that! She is already exactly as you need her to be. That is why the universe picked her and not me or Pansy or, I dunno, an adult who knows what the hell they’re doing! It is not that you need someone, not that you need just anyone. You need _her_. Your Reaper is not a guide, she is your guardian.”

The world seemed to stop spinning and the stars aligned. Every feeling made so much more sense, along with why they never seemed to fit into the categories of “guide” and “guided.” Granger was chosen because of their past, because of their connection, and for the deep reserve of magic at her core.

“You were put here to protect me,” Draco realized aloud.

“How is this protecting you?” Granger gestured to the hospital wing around them. “I did this, remember? I did this!” she shouted, angry at herself and her weakness.

“I never said you were good at it,” Draco smiled that same entitled grin he used with his friends, and Granger relaxed a little. “Don’t think I am not angry as hell for what you did to me, but I forgive you. I am going back to sleep now,” he announced.

Blaise was not sure Draco was conscious when he mentioned,

“And you have detention on Wednesday.”

**.oOo.**

“I need  _Magical Herbs and Fungi,_ ” Draco said aloud.

To passers-by it would have appeared as though the book floated to his outstretched hand of its own accord. He scribbled something onto a roll of parchment, flipped through the book, scanned a page, and finished writing a sentence.

“What is the point of a plant that sprouts any time it comes into contact with a solid object? There is nothing in here about the purpose of a Puffapod,” Draco muttered, clearly frustrated. “Just that Trolls are allergic. Ugh, what a stupid plant with a stupid name. I’m almost finished—“

“They can be a weapon,” Granger said. “Especially against Trolls. That’s their only practical use, but I wouldn’t put that in your essay.”

“The flowers are kind of pretty, so I’ll say they are decorative.”

Granger nodded her approval and Draco squeezed one final paragraph into the remaining two inches on the back of his roll of parchment.

**.oOo.**

Draco refused to open his eyes.

“I do not want to do it. Don’t make me do it, I would rather fail.”

“Draco, it’s a star chart, not a three-roll essay for Ancient Runes.”

“You took Ancient Runes?”

“I took everything. Now stop changing the subject and fill in the chart.”

It was Tuesday evening and Draco’s final night in the hospital wing. Blaise brought him Monday’s homework and Draco completed it all except the star chart, which he referred to by every variant of “stupid” and “pointless” that he knew. So when he opened his eyes, he grabbed the chart angrily from Granger’s hand and silently wished he knew the spell to set things on fire.

He did all his schoolwork on his lap, the bedsheet stained with ink that dropped from the tip of his quill. Draco flattened the chart over his knees and muttered aloud as he filled in what he knew.

“This is Triangulum, because it looks like a triangle.” He moved his quill to the lower-right portion of the chart. “And this is Triangulum Aural because it’s a bigger triangle and to the south. East of that is Crux which is just a cross … One day I’m going to write an essay on the lack of creativity in naming constellations.”

Granger laughed.

“They weren’t supposed to be creative.”

“Telescopium because it looks like a telescope. This is Leo because it looks like a lion and Leo Minor is the triangle on top of the lion. Stupid triangles!”

And so he continued from memory, to fill in the lower thirds of the chart. After a half hour, Draco let his head fall back onto the pillows.

“I need the book.”

Granger handed over his Astronomy textbook and he flipped to the maps in the back.

“All these start with Cs. I can never remember them. Camelopardalis, Cepheus, Cassiopeia, Cygnus—“

“I like this one,” Granger said, pointing to the east of Cepheus. “That’s Draco, you know.”

“Of course I know,” Draco shot back. “All the Blacks are named after stars.”

“I thought you were a Malfoy.”

“And I thought you would be less annoying after you nearly killed me. Congratulations, Granger! You have finally given me something in common with my father: disappointment.”

“I—hey, look at me!” Granger sat on the side of his bed and grabbed his chin to force his face in her direction.

“I am sorry, Draco. I wish I knew what I am supposed to do. Everything is so confusing; what am I to you, really? There are so many questions I don’t have the answers to, and I’m sorry for that as well. There are things I haven’t told you, things I am afraid to tell you. But I promise, Draco, I am never going to lie to you.

“I spent my entire life having to prove myself to people who should have accepted me in the first place. You were one of them and I hated you for it. But now I see that you have to prove yourself, too, and I am most sorry I didn’t see that sooner.

“I will do everything I can to protect you, not because I have to, but because I owe you the chance to prove yourself. All I need is for you to trust me.”

Draco was very quiet and very still for a long time. Still holding his quill, he flipped to the front of the book and stared for a bit longer.

“Mother named me. She’s the only Black not named after a star, you know? I mean, perhaps you do not know because you spent most of your time in the library away from us.”

“Because you did not want to spend time with me” went unspoken, but it resonated nonetheless. Granger started to reach for him but thought better of it.

“She told me I was too good for one star, so she named me after an entire constellation: the dragon. The fiercest, most powerful creature in the sky. It is not only the Malfoy part of my name I have trouble living up to. I hate astronomy,” he finished petulantly.

“Me too,” Granger admitted. “But there is something about your constellation you left out. See, here—“ Granger reached over and pointed to a passage on the left page.

“The Draco constellation,” he read aloud, “is one of the northernmost constellations in the night sky. It is home to several binary star systems and double stars.”

Granger smiled.

“A double star is two stars bound by a central point, unable to get away from each other, too close to be seen separately from Earth. That’s you and me, Draco,” she nudged his shoulder and even Draco could not quite hold back a chuckle. “You’re stuck with me. You are more like your namesake than you think.”

“If I ask you something, do you promise to give me an honest answer?”

“Of course,” Granger promised.

“Okay,” Draco sighed. “If it came down to it … Would you ever throw a Puffapod at me?”

His Reaper laughed and playfully smacked his arm.

“You’re a fucking riot, Draco Malfoy,” she laughed, then her expression turned to one of shock and she covered her mouth.

“Did you just curse?” Draco asked in disbelief.

She nodded, then they burst into laughter.

**.oOo.**

“This is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Granger replied as they made their way from the staircase to the castle entrance.

It was eleven o’clock at night, and Draco was strangely grateful. His first day back was rough, as he’d spent the previous week practically confined to a bed and could not quite muster the energy for a full school day. He took a seat in the back of History of Magic because he needed a nap.

He met Pansy, Ron Weasley, and Harry Potter in the entrance hall. One look at the nasty (but healing) cut on Pansy’s arm and the light purple bruise beneath Weasley’s left eye and Draco could put together why they were tagging along. He gravitated to Pansy’s side and subtly squeezed her hand in thanks.

Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, lit a lamp and said, “Follow me,” as he led them outside. “I bet you’ll think twice before breaking a school rule again, won’t you, eh? Oh, yes ... hard work and pain are the best teachers if you ask me … It’s just a pity they let the old punishments die out … hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, I’ve got the chains still in my office, keep ‘em well-oiled in case they’re ever needed …”

“What a creep,” Granger said.

Draco nodded in agreement. A transfer to Beauxbatons wasn’t looking so bad.

“Right, off we go, and don’t think of running off now, it’ll be worse for you if you do.”

They marched across the grounds, and Filch’s giddiness had Draco on edge. Clouds obscured most of the moon and the darkness only added to Draco’s apprehension.

“Is that you, Filch?” the gamekeeper shouted from up ahead. “Hurry up, I want ter get started.”

When Harry Potter and Ron Weasley looked a little too relieved, Filch said,

“I suppose you think you’ll be enjoying yourself with the oaf? Well think again, boys—it’s into the forest you’re going and I’m much mistaken if you’ll all come out in one piece.”

Pansy and Draco abruptly stopped.

“The forest?” he asked, his voice much higher than normal. “We can’t go in there at night—there’s all sorts of things in there.”

“Werewolves, I heard,” Pansy nodded.

Weasley slid a bit closer to Potter.

“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” Filch was alarmingly pleased by this. “Should’ve thought about them werewolves before you got into trouble.”

Hagrid strode to them from the darkness, a giant dog in tow. He had a large crossbow and a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder.

“Abou’ time, I bin waitin’ fer half an hour already. All right, Harry, Ron?”

“I’ll be back at dawn for what’s left of ‘em,” Filch said before heading back to the castle.

“I am not going in that forest,” Draco told the gamekeeper.

The Forbidden Forest was, first and foremost, forbidden. It was the stuff of Draco’s nightmares. Being out there alone was awful, worse than the loneliness of his dream room because it’s impossible to truly be alone in the forest. The only question was which unfriendly creature they would run into first.

“Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” the gamekeeper (Hagrid?) said with much more bite than Draco deemed necessary. “Yeh’ve done wrong an’ now yeh’ve got ter pay for it.”

“This is servant stuff,” Pansy insisted.

“I thought we would be copying lines! When my father hears about this—“

“He’d tell yer that’s how it is at Hogwarts. Copyin’ lines’s no good fer no one. Yeh’ll do summat useful or yeh’ll get out. If yeh think yer father’d rather you were expelled then get back off ter the castle an’ pack. Go on!”

Honestly, Draco wanted to leave. This school was sending him into a forest to scout for something that was probably capable of killing four eleven-year-olds fairly easily. They stuffed him in a dungeon for a dormitory and even after spending a week in the hospital wing he outpaced his classmates in every subject. There was no challenge where he needed it and they presented challenges everywhere else. Goodness only knew what they were keeping in the third-floor corridor.

But Hagrid was right, Father would not accept expulsion. Malfoys are better than that. Malfoys can charm or buy or suffer their way out of anything, so Draco did not turn back. He felt Granger’s arm wrap around his shoulders.

“Even if you can’t see me, I’m here, okay?” When Draco nodded, she continued, “Remember my promise.”

“Right then,” Hagrid said. “Now listen carefully ‘cause it’s dangerous what we’re gonna do tonight an’ I don’t want no one takin’ risks.”

“You’re walking us into a dark forest at night, I’ll say that’s a risk,” Weasley muttered.

Pansy even nodded in agreement.

“Stop that talkin’, alrigh’?” he sighed. “Follow me over here a moment.”

He led them to the edge of the forest. Holding his lamp up high, he pointed down a narrow, winding earth track that disappeared into the thick black trees. A light breeze seemed to draw them even closer to where Hagrid pointed.

“See that silvery stuff there on the ground?”

Draco knew exactly what that was. He’d seen it before.

“That’s unicorn blood,” he said.

Everyone looked at him with varying degrees of surprise and skepticism.

“Yeah, tha’s right. There’s a unicorn been hurt bad by summat. This is the second time in a week. I found one dead last Wednesday. We’re gonna try an’ find the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery.”

“You want us to track a unicorn? That’s detention?’ Pansy asked in disbelief.

“And what happens if whatever killed the unicorn finds us first?” Draco asked, increasingly terrified.

“There’s nothin’ that lives in the forest that’ll hurt yeh if yer with me or Fang,” Hagrid nodded toward the gigantic dog at his side. “An’ keep ter the path. We’re gonna split inta two parties an’ follow the trail in diff’rent directions. There’s blood all over the place, it must’ve been staggerin’ around since last night at least.”

“I want Fang,” Draco insisted.

“All right, but I warn yeh he’s a coward,” Hagrid said. “Now me, Ron, and Parkinson will go toward the left, while Harry and Draco go right. If yeh get inta trouble, send up red sparks with yer wand, and green if yeh find the unicorn. Be careful and le’s go!”

Draco cursed himself internally as they broke right. He’d really messed up, as the only things between him and a seriously underwhelming demise were Harry Potter and a dog. It seemed Potter realized this, too, and they both just kept quiet for a few minutes. Though Potter, ever the curious one, had to ask,

“How did you know that was unicorn blood?”

“Everyone knows what unicorn blood looks like,” Draco lied.

“No they don’t. Even your friend looked at you funny.”

“Yeah, well, Pansy’s talents lie outside the world of schoolwork,” Draco quipped. 

“This is why no one likes you,” Harry said.

“Sure, that is it.”

“No, really, you’d—“

“Shut up, Potter! You may be the most famous wizard in the world, but that does not mean I want to listen to you talk. I knew it was unicorn blood because I have seen it before.”

“Where?”

“Why the hell would I tell—“

Potter clapped a hand over Draco’s mouth, both pairs of eyes going wide as a sort of slithering noise could be heard in the distance. Not like a snake, more like a cloak sliding overtop leaves. When it faded away Potter said,

“That’s not the others.”

“No, it is not,” Draco whispered in agreement as he nervously ran his fingers through his hair. He glanced around, looking for Granger who was nowhere to be found.

“So it’s not something else attacking the unicorns, it’s someone,” Harry observed. Draco was pleased to notice Potter seemed just as scared as he was.

For some reason, they kept following the trail of blood droplets. Twenty minutes later, it seemed the droplets got bigger and became more like pools glinting silver in the moonlight. The trees thickened, making it nearly impossible to follow the trail.

“I wish we had Hagrid and his crossbow,” Potter said, hand tightening on his wand.

Draco was having similar thoughts about sending up red sparks. This unicorn was dead, there was too much blood otherwise.

“Is detention like this in the Muggle world?” Draco asked.

“No,” Potter said. “Sometimes we clean floors but really it’s just copying lines.”

“The hell is wrong with this school?” Draco whispered angrily.

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Harry whisper-shouted, but Draco ignored him.

“You’d think having my skull crushed would be punishment enough, but no! All this for making fun of Longbottom, even though he makes it so easy—“

Potter again clapped a hand over Draco’s mouth but it was too late. They stood at the edge of a sort of clearing and in the middle was a unicorn, lying on its side. Its legs stuck out at odd angles and its mane was spread pearly-white against the dark leaves.

There was a dark figure in a cloak bent over its side and both boys were transfixed. Disturbed by Draco’s rant, the hooded figure was looking right at them, blood dripping down its front. It grinned deviously as it picked itself fully off the dead unicorn and seemed to float in place.

For the briefest moment Draco thought it was his Reaper. Instead of running away and screaming, his instincts were paralyzed by fear and confusion. His feet, his arms, his eyes … None of them would move. Then the hooded figure began to glide toward them.

“Harry Potter …” it muttered in a deep, strangled voice that was definitely not Granger’s.

Just as Draco came back to himself, he remembered to send up a flare of red sparks from his wand, knowing there was no way the others would see it in time to rescue them.

Suddenly, the cloaked figure halted and Potter staggered back before falling to the ground and clutching his forehead in pain. There were too many things happening for Draco to process. As though someone had put him in a Body-bind, he felt unable to move. The cloaked figure continued to slam its fist against an invisible barrier, licking unicorn blood from around its lips as it did. Potter was on the ground in a fetal position, eyes shut, and crying out for something to “Stop! Please!” Draco doubted he even knew he was speaking.

“Malfoy!” he seemed to hear someone cry out in the distance, but might’ve imagined it.

“Draco!” he heard that one, and his head snapped toward the right.

His Reaper was there, slowly stepping toward the cloaked man, her arms outstretched and magic flowing from her palms. Draco realized she must be casting a protection spell. When he finally caught her gaze she shouted,

“Take Harry and run!”

Her voice shook as did her hands. She couldn’t control it much longer. He looked back at the cloaked figure, still unable to put all the pieces together. His Reaper must have realized this because she simplified it down to one word:

“Run!”

That, Draco understood. He grabbed Potter by the sleeve and half-dragged him away from where they stood, hoping all the while that Granger could keep up that barrier long enough for them to get away. The only parts of him that seemed to function were his hands and his legs, and they only received one message:

“Take Harry and run!”

Somewhere along the way, Potter stopped crying out and regained full use of his legs. They silently agreed to keep running until they were back outside the forest.

Once they were no longer within the confines of the trees, they both collapsed on the grass.

“Why would someone drink unicorn blood?” Harry asked between breaths.

“Because it can save you, no matter how close you are to death.” He thought briefly of his Reaper and realized he was much closer to Death than anyone could be. “But it will curse you.”

“How?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“Well you knew what unicorn blood looked like.”

“How many creatures do you think have silver blood?”

“Well I don’t—“

“There yeh are!” a voice cut Harry off.

Soon, their three compatriots were hovering over them. Fang had long since made his way back to Hagrid’s hut.

“We ran into some centaurs who said you all headed out this way,” Weasley said.

“Yeah, that and something about Mars being bright tonight,” Pansy added.

“Harry! Harry, are you alright?” Granger came running out of the forest. Draco had never seen her run before.

“Is he alright?” she asked Draco.

He rolled his eyes. Of course she’d be more concerned about Potter.

“I’m fine,” Harry announced to the group. “Hagrid, the unicorn is dead. It’s in that clearing … somewhere.”

“With someone drinking its blood,” Draco added.

Ron and Pansy gasped.

“Figured as much,” Hagrid muttered. “Best you four go on back up ter the castle, an’ I’ll be takin’ this ter the headmaster in the morning.”

**.oOo.**

The staircase wouldn’t move. Pansy ran into a friendly Hufflepuff trying desperately not to get caught out of bed as they were on their way in. Pans was in the Hufflepuff common room; Draco, on the other hand, was left to sit and wait.

“You knew that would happen,” Draco insisted.

“I knew it might happen,” Granger corrected.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes on the bench beneath the House hourglasses. Then Draco held out his hand.

“Thank you for, um, for saving us back there.”

“A handshake?” Granger asked skeptically, glancing at Draco’s hand with contempt. “Are we really back to this?”

Draco shrugged.

“I wasn’t saving Harry, alright?” Granger insisted. “I was saving you. And it felt good; it felt right. Like my power was meant to be used at that moment. For the first time, I really knew what I was supposed to do.”

“You loved him, didn’t you?” Draco asked. “That’s why you miss Harry most.”

“He was like my brother,” Granger shrugged. “The three of us, me, Harry, and Ron were like family. I mean, they were my family. Harry more than anyone. Yes, I miss him, but this Harry isn’t mine, is he? He’s different. He doesn’t know me, but it doesn’t make watching him take this journey over again any easier.”

“I am not that Draco, either.”

“I know that,” Granger said.

Draco nodded.

“I trust you now. I trust you with my life.”

And how could he not? Granger wrapped him in a hug and only then did the staircase finally let them down to the dungeon.

 


	8. VII. Every Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [PlotPlotPlot]

The moment December 1st rolled around, Hogwarts seemed to transform. Students awoke to Christmas trees in every corner and snow fell from the ceiling in the Great Hall. (Though it disappeared before getting too close to the tables.) A wreath hung around the Hogwarts crest and several branches of mistletoe floated throughout the hallways. Peeves, naturally, took a liking to this and swooped in any time one hovered over Professor McGonagall.

It was early December when an owl swooped in with the morning mail and dropped a small letter in front of Blaise Zabini. His fellow classmates, regardless of House, would normally describe him as “remarkably charming” and “warm.” That disposition faded once the owl flew away, leaving an envelope with his name on the outside in his mother’s handwriting.

Draco, seated to Blaise’s right, was first to notice after receiving his own letter. Blaise stared at the note like he knew what was inside, but if he waited long enough it might burst into flames and whatever was inside would simply not be true anymore.

Soon after, Pansy noticed Blaise and did a double-take, a reaction repeated down the table in such a symmetrical fashion it was almost comical. When it became evident that Blaise was not going to touch the letter, Draco reached for it. Blaise said,

“It’s number six, I know it is.”

Draco broke the seal and pulled out the single small notecard. He flipped to the back, thinking there might be more than the, frankly, crass and impersonal message on the front.

Then he opened his own letter and read through it with a sense of urgency. 

“Mon destin,

Désolé d’apprendre le décès de son beau-père. Blaise serait la bienvenue chez nous pendant les vacances. J’espère que vou allez bien á lècole. Fais tes devoirs.

Bons baisers!”

“You are staying with me over Christmas,” Draco told Blaise.

“No, it’s okay,” Blaise replied, still staring at the place on the table where his letter had arrived.

“You are coming,” Draco insisted.

“No, I should be at home with mum—“

“Blaise!” Draco shouted so loudly that the rest of the table, who were pretending not to listen in, stared openly. He lowered his voice and continued.

“You are my best friend, let me do this for you. We have too many empty rooms, anyway.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Blaise asked.

“You are supposed to come to the manor for Christmas, eat delicious food, open presents, and lose to me in a snowball fight.”

“Dream on, Malfoy,” Blaise even cracked a smile as he said it.

The entire table seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. For a moment it was as though the warmth had been sucked from the air, the predictable result of a distraught Blaise Zabini. Draco shouted for Crabbe and Goyle to follow him back to the Common Room. That brought out a visible shift in the table’s demeanor. Candidly, everyone loved Blaise. Knowing he would not spend Christmas in a “mourning” home with the pull of his mother’s reputation made them all feel better.

As Draco walked to the Owlery, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle on either side, he fumed internally that there was likely a much better pool of friends at Beauxbatons. He scribbled a quick note to his mother before heading up the stairs.

On his way down the turret steps, Draco was unceremoniously accosted by Harry Potter, who pushed him against the wall. The bricks dug into his back and Draco shouted,

“What the hell?”

Crabbe and Goyle, all the help they were, stood by sniggering. When Draco realized why, he instinctively ripped Potter’s fingers from his shirt. Crabbe and Goyle pointed at one of the school’s floating mistletoe branches hovering above Harry and Draco’s heads. Like this school was not torture enough already.

“Oh, sod off, you two,” Draco insisted, with Potter’s face still much too close.

“How did you know about the stone?” Harry asked.

“Stone? What stone?” Draco replied, genuinely confused.

“When we were fitted for robes—“

“You went shopping together?” Goyle howled even louder.

“You told me about Nicolas Flamel!”

“Get your hands off me Potter!” Draco pushed him back.

“And you knew about the unicorn blood,” Harry accused. “Why do you know everything I need to know?”

“Much as I would like to say, and I do know more than you so I am pleased we are on the same page about that, I do not know everything.”

“But you know things you shouldn’t,” Potter insisted. “You never answered my questions. How do you know all these things and are you helping someone to steal it?”

“To steal what, Potter?” Draco said, fed up with him. “My best friend just lost his stepfather, alright? I am trying to keep him from having a Christmas where he has to pretend his mum did not just kill her sixth husband. Forgive me for not caring about what the hell you are accusing me of and for not giving a single damn about what you think of me.

“I know what unicorn blood looks like because I have some. It’s a crime, you know, so avoid telling that to your Weasel-bee friend, alright? His Ministry-employed father would never find it, but there is nothing in this world I hate more than Ministry raids at the manor.”

“Ron wouldn’t care, I just need to know what that thing was in the forest. And you seem to be the only person with all the answers.”

“Why would I tell you anything?” was Draco’s natural response because he had nothing to tell. Before Potter said anything else, Draco bolted down the stairs …

And ran right into Headmaster Dumbledore.

“Master Malfoy!” he exclaimed rather gleefully. “I would very much like to see you I my office.”

**.oOo.**

Draco was not nervous, though Professor Dumbledore was a powerful wizard. So was Draco’s father and so was the Dark Lord and on and on. Hell, he had a powerful witch at his shoulder all the time. Draco had no desire to impress Albus Dumbledore. His father had been complaining about the headmaster for years, so Draco was predisposed to apathy. If he hated everyone his father complained about, he’d have little room in his soul for anything else.

Dumbledore’s office was cluttered and colourful. The circular room was just a bit smaller than Father’s, probably about the size of Draco’s mother’s office. There were spindle-legged tables scattered throughout the place, topped with silver instruments of all kinds emitting puffs of smoke in some cases and various whirring noises in others. Overall, the room felt very full.

The highlight and centerpiece was a large, dark brown, claw-footed desk. There was a bookshelf behind it, filled with tattered tomes not found in the manor library. The Sorting Hat was back there, too, though Draco felt it was best not to ask any questions of it. After all, it made the right decision.

“Master Malfoy!” the headmaster seemed to appear from nowhere and motioned for Draco to take a seat in front of his desk.

“What is this about?” Draco asked as he sat. “I served my detention,” he insisted.

“You did, indeed. Mr. Potter does not remember much about how the two of you escaped that mysterious figure in the Forbidden Forest. So I now pose that question to you. How did you escape?”

Dumbledore had a long white beard, longer white hair, and behind those half-moon spectacles there was a glint in his eyes that told Draco he already knew the answer. He looked like a wise old man, with an aura so welcoming it concealed the fact that he was the most powerful wizard in the world. Those with power, at least in Draco’s experience, were hardly ever friendly, and certainly not to him.

“I believe you know how we escaped.”

“Be respectful, Draco!” Granger gasped, but Draco just rolled his eyes. Dumbledore, for what it’s worth, chuckled.

“You are very much like your mother,” he said. “Yes, the staff was informed of your Reaper after your stay in the hospital wing. It is an odd pairing, the two of you, isn’t it?”

Draco had no response. He did not think of himself and Granger as a pair. A parasite, she may be, but they were not a pair.

“There have been several people with Reapers since Merlin’s was first recorded,” Professor Dumbledore stated offhand.

“Such as?” Draco asked as Granger leaned forward, anxious to hear the answer.

“I had a student named Tom who had one, but that was decades ago, of course. They tend to be generational phenomena.”

Granger’s face abruptly drained of its colour. Her eyes darted around the room before settling on a silver teapot. She stared at it, squinting, as though trying to work out some complex mathematical equation in her head.

“Sir, I would like to know everything there is that you can tell me about them. I want to know the truth.”

“Ah, the truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. But I shall not lie.” He chanced a glance at where he somehow knew Granger to be before he continued.

“It is curious, you see, as Reapers are little more than legend. We know very little about them, but none of them are like you yours.

“Sometimes they appear like ghosts, to be a guide or a moral compass, as I assumed yours to be. Exclusive to you and to your mind, seemingly ripped right out of another universe. The changes they make lead to the death of their charge, so most disappear for extended periods of time and avoid emotional connection altogether. The universe can be quite crass.”

Draco frowned. That didn’t sound like Granger at all.

“Others, take the form of real people in our world. They are not tethered to their charge, and sometimes that person is unaware they have a Reaper until much later in life. They present themselves as a friend, a mentor, a follower. They, too, inspire their charge to make changes to the timeline. But your Reaper—“

“Granger. Her name is Granger.”

“Miss Granger, then,” Dumbledore politely acquiesced. “Falls into neither of these known categories. She can present herself in either plane of existence, when all others have been confined to one. The emotional connection between you is strong and angry, like she does not care for you much at all.”

“That’s not true,” Draco insisted. “She cares, she just is not very good at it.” Granger made a conciliatory noise.

“Which is how you escaped the man in the Forbidden Forest,” Headmaster Dumbledore inferred.

“That thing was not a man.”

“Right you are. And yet, everything Miss Granger does happens through or for or because of you. And she has a great reserve of power. I believe, Draco, that your Reaper is here as more of a partnership than any we have ever seen. My theory is you can only mess with time so much before the line of past, present, and future is unrecognizable. It is a responsibility only given to those who can be trusted with it, so being chosen is an honour.”

“An honour I did not ask for,” Draco quipped.

“Perhaps not, but still, it’s curious the two of you …”

“The two of us what?”

“How is it in the grand scheme of things, the universe chose to reshape your destiny and not Harry Potter’s?”

And there it was. Every time. Every single time, someone had to ask why Draco was chosen. The small boy with the blond hair who is too soft to be a Malfoy and too entitled to be anything else.

_They all wonder. “If Draco has a Reaper, why doesn’t Harry Potter?” Everything in my life is still somehow about Harry Potter._

“While humans have a knack for choosing precisely what is worst for them, the universe does just the opposite. I must say I am the slightest bit mystified by your connection. Reapers are rarely written about and believed by most everyone to be a myth. So why is your connection so much stronger than any ever recorded?”

Granger shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to Draco. She appeared to know something she did not want to say. Draco’s head spun. He had nothing to go by, no context for this. He was grasping at straws trying to figure out what it meant. How much control over his life did he have? The only word he’d ever heard that came close to what Dumbledore described was “soulmate” and referring to Granger like that felt like trying on a shirt that was four sizes too big.

Headmaster Dumbledore shrugged in answer to his own question and motioned to one of the silver tins on his desk.

“Biscuit?”

“Ask him if he has records we can borrow,” Granger insisted.

“She wants to look at your records,” Draco translated aloud.

“I am surprised your parents have not already given them to you. They were in the Black family’s originally, if I recall.”

“That’s not possible,” Granger insisted. Once they stepped back into the third floor corridor, she continued. “I have read every book in the manor library. There is nothing there about us—“

“Well, that is not entirely true,” Draco corrected.

**.oOo.**

Judging by the look on his father’s face when Draco arrived at King’s Cross, Narcissa did not tell him Blaise would be coming home for the holidays. Draco’s face flushed in embarrassment; his parents’ whispers as they approached were not quite low enough.

“I do not want to encourage whatever this is,” Lucius said. Draco was not sure what “this” referred to, except that it clearly involved Blaise.

“Lucius, I do not believe that’s what this is.”

“If he was not our only … It would be fine. I like the child, Narcissa, would I allow him into my home otherwise?”

“You have it the wrong way around,” she replied.

“What are they talking about?” Draco whispered as they approached. His mother wrapped him and Blaise in a firm hug. Draco’s father ruffled his hair a little and placed his hand on Draco’s back to propel him forward.  

“I, um …” Blaise awkwardly cleared his throat. He whispered back, “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Draco knew immediately it was not “nothing” because Blaise did not get flustered over “nothing.” He knew not to press the issue, though.

Before leaving to Hogwarts, Malfoy Manor was the only place Draco ever lived. It felt stifling even though there were more rooms than his family could ever need. The manor represented his birthright and his destiny, a reminder he did not need. For years, Draco had wanted nothing but to leave.

That December was the first time the manor felt like home. The four of them stepped out of the fireplace and into the parlor, and a room previously filled with frightening memories was somehow a welcome back to his rightful place. Hogwarts was the opposite: the first time an institution tried to beat him down, make him equal to his peers. (His grades and Granger were persistent reminders those efforts were doomed to fail.) At this place, at his home, it was the opposite. There was a perpetual demand that he be better and act as such. While Draco always doubted himself and his ability to meet those expectations, it was a welcome change from the suffocating halls of school. His newfound sense of belonging in this space gave him the slightest hope that maybe he could be the Malfoy the line needed him to be.

Draco’s parents went out for dinner on Christmas Eve. Immediately after they stepped into the Floo, Draco turned toward Granger.

“We need to get Blaise.”

She followed, confused, as they found Blaise in the library. Draco led them both upstairs and to the door of his father’s office. He took a deep breath in and said,

“I am going to get in so much trouble for this.”

“What are we doing here?” Blaise asked. “I can’t have your father upset with me, Draco. I won’t be allowed back. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Everything will be fine,” Draco said, not believing his words. “He has been keeping something from me which I should have been told about a long time ago.”

He exhaled and pushed open the doors.

It was exactly the same as it was years earlier when Draco saw it for the first time. A fire still crackled off to the right, an imposing desk sat in front of a window overlooking the gardens. Draco walked past all of this to the wall on the left. He ran a hand along the wall, hoping there would be some feeling or trigger when he found the right spot.

“Oh! That’s brilliant!” Granger said, apparently realizing Draco’s intent. “I had forgotten about this.”

“How could you forget?” Draco asked, distracted. “Ah!”

There it was. His hand ran over one section of the wall and he felt a slight tug. Draco marked the place then offered his hand to Granger, palm up.

“I need you to do this.”

Understanding immediately, she silently drew a finger across his open palm. He winced as it split open and a small red stream began to wind its way down his wrist.

“What the—what the hell?!” Blaise shouted.

It must’ve been a frightening thing for him to see. He watched Draco stick out his hand and demand something of the air. Slowly, it appeared as though Draco’s skin split open of its own accord. Like someone had taken a seam ripper to the thread binding his cells together and after a moment his hand was stained with blood.  

For years Draco’s Reaper was a thing he believed, in most ways. The same way you know the moon is not made of cheese or that it is impossibly cold at the top of a mountain. Not because you’ve ever set foot there, but because everything everyone’s ever told you led to that inescapable conclusion. To actually set foot on the moon or Everest, well, that results in an immediate feeling of insignificance.

When Draco placed his bloody hand on the wall, it shattered like glass and rained fragments onto the floor where they disappeared. Blaise repeatedly shouted “What the hell is going on?!” but Draco ignored him. He walked around the table with all those artifacts, pausing for the briefest moment to glance at the small black journal Granger pulled him from last time.

“This is it,” Granger said, picking a slim book off the shelf a yard or so above Draco’s head. “This is what we want.”

And they could not get out of the office quickly enough. Draco hated being in there with his father present, but stealing from him like this? That punishment was unthinkable.

Blaise followed Draco to the library, disassociated from reality. Draco snapped his fingers in front of Blaise’s face shouting,

“Hello!”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, I’m uh, good. Right.”

“Hopefully Granger here can find some answers in this book,” Draco said, glancing at the rag-tag pages somehow bound together. They were of different textures and ages, and a wide range if Draco were to guess. Some were ancient runes, others in hieroglyphics. There were some in French and Greek and Latin …

Progress was slow and Draco left it all to his Reaper because it was too much. Blaise was there to forget why he was not at home and Reapers were not his idea of fun.

**.oOo.**

Upon his return to Hogwarts, Draco would tell everyone his favourite holiday memory was the massive snowball fight. Blaise told everyone he won and Draco quickly followed it up with, “But you cheated,” which Blaise vehemently denied.

The Malfoys host a Christmastide Ball every year during the week after Christmas. Blaise being twelve and Draco being eleven, they were too young to attend. Banished from every fun part of the manor until the festivities were over, they had no choice but to play outside as the sun set.

Nine or so yards separated their two snow forts. Draco had a stockpile of pre-made snowballs while Blaise had opted to make his fort taller. Snow piled high atop the garden and Draco kept sinking any time he made a move. It always shocked him and sent a chilly tremor through his body when snow found its way into his trainers.

After sunset, the grounds were lit only by excess light from the manor windows, and the battle commenced. Blaise struck first with a throw that barely reached the edge of Draco’s fort. Draco retaliated immediately with a precision strike to one of Blaise’s “turrets.”

“Not fair! I worked hard on those!”

So it went for several minutes as they packed snowballs and attempted to down the enemy fort. Draco poked his head over top his wall to survey the damage and was promptly barraged by no less than ten snowballs, one of which caught him square on the face. He fell backward in shock.

“How the hell did you do that?” he shouted.

Draco lifted his head enough to see Blaise shrug and insist,

“Wasn’t me.”

Sure as hell, there was Granger standing behind Blaise, palms out, smirking like she’d just won the Quidditch World Cup. Draco grabbed a snowball and threw it at her. When Blaise heard something get hit behind him, he jumped away and shouted,

“What the hell?!”

“Granger thinks she’s being funny.”

“It was funny!” Granger said, shaking snow from her robe. “But the game is on now, Malfoy!” she shouted.

And the battle began again without reprieve. Draco piled twenty snowballs into one corner and held out his wand. Swish and flick!

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

The snowballs levitated off the ground and Draco made a slingshot motion with his wand. They flew forcefully into Blaise’s fort in rapid succession, collapsing the western half. Granger leapt out of the way and shouted back,

“Impressive wand work, Draco!”

It was a genuine compliment, like they were more than Reaper and charge. She was starting to feel like a friend. She and Blaise seemed to work out a way to communicate because that was the final blow Draco was able to land.

Blaise threw two snowballs which forced Draco to duck. Granger held out her hands and Draco knew he was in for it. The snow in a nearby tree leapt off the barren branches and floated toward a central point until it was a tightly-packed mass. It looked like a cloud hovering atop Draco’s fort. Granger moved her fingers like she was playing an invisible piano and the mass began to sprinkle snowflakes. Draco stuck out his tongue to catch one and Granger let out a soft “aaw” before she let it go. The snow cloud collapsed and it swallowed Draco’s fort.

Blaise’s head popped overtop his own wall of snow and waited for Draco to claw his way out. He was buried fairly deep, but not enough for Granger to be concerned. Finally, his head poked up out the top and he shivered, his teeth chattered, and his nose was pink with cold. Blaise ran to him and pulled him out. Blaise wrapped his arms around Draco in a hug, for warmth, and Draco started to laugh between the clacking of his teeth. Granger laughed too, and even Blaise smiled.

“You okay, Malfoy?” he asked.

Draco nodded.

“Y-you are s-s-so gonna p-pay f-for that, Granger,” he teased.

Twenty minutes later, they were in bed with cups of cocoa.

**.oOo.**

There was no mention of a Tom in that book from Father’s study. Granger didn’t say much about it over the holidays, only that she agreed with Dumbledore’s assessment. They were unique among the myth. An “added legend” or whatever phrase they wanted to use for “we have no idea what the hell is going on.”

Granger stopped pestering Draco in class, but was always there to help with homework. It was a nice system which Draco preferred to her hovering at his shoulder. She spent much of her time with the Grey Lady, and Draco thought it was nice she might have found a friend. Though sometimes Granger would show up in History of Magic and tell much better versions of Professor Binns’s lecture. He found that most amusing. Once, she threw a wadded-up ball of parchment at Goyle’s head and he mistakenly blamed Pansy. That was hilarious. While Draco hesitated to use the word, she started to feel like a friend.

Then March came.

It was breakfast time and Draco thought it was odd that there was no owl from his parents carrying sweets. No, his owl was last and it carried a single bright red envelope.

All the colour left his face. Everyone knew what it was, and he seriously considered ducking under the table or making a run for it. Draco glanced at Blaise, who shrugged and asked,

“What did you do?”

“Oh no,” Granger appeared across the table from Draco and even her tiny rainbow aura seemed to dim.

The Howler broke its own seal before Draco could move to pick it up.

“DRACO MALFOY!” his father’s voice rang throughout the Great Hall.

Everyone stopped eating and turned to stare. Even Dumbledore was intrigued and leaned forward to listen in. Draco had never been more embarrassed in his life.

“You broke into my office and stole one of the most important books in our collection? What your mother and I choose to tell you is not your concern! We found the book in the library, of course, where you left it. Next time, at least have the decency to cover your tracks.

“We will discuss your punishment when you return home.”

The letter tore itself into shreds.

Marcus Flint, a fifth-year Slytherin with teeth like a piranha, stood and raised his juice goblet.

“To Draco Malfoy, may his death be swift!”

The rest of the Slytherin table raised their goblets in mock salute.

“To Malfoy!” they cheered.

The Hufflepuff table joined in with raised cups and even Dumbledore lifted a glass. Draco’s forehead fell to the table and his shoulders shook with laughter. Come end-of-term, he was likely in for an unpleasant reception at the manor. Father didn’t know about Blaise’s involvement; he was spared, and that was the most important thing. Draco’s friends would be here for him. Even if they were kind of shitty, at least he had friends, right?

Granger kept apologizing.

“I’m so sorry, Draco I forgot!”

He shrugged and mouthed back,  _So did I_.

**.oOo.**

The end of the first term came rather quickly. After exams, Draco was tops in every subject. (Including astronomy.) Slytherin and Ravenclaw were engaged in a last-minute battle for the House Cup and Draco was anxious to get back home where a broomstick was calling his name.

Four days before end-of-term, someone pulled the covers off his bed in the early morning. Draco popped up and angrily exclaimed, “What?!” He rubbed his eyes and saw Granger standing at the foot of his bed looking worried. Her chest went up and down rapidly, like she was having trouble breathing or had run a great distance. Draco tilted his head to one side.

“You need to go down to the entrance hall,” she insisted. “Now. I need you to go, now!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll change—“

“There is no time for that!” she shouted. “Forget clothes, forget your shoes, don’t worry about your hair. Just run. Now!”

“Why?” Draco asked, still bleary.

“You’ll wake up on the run. Go!”

Draco’s feet seemed to move of their own accord. He ran out of the dormitory so fast his feat barely touched the ground. Against all odds, the staircase leading up to the entrance hall was in its proper place. Granger was right behind him when he arrived …

And there was no one there.

“Bloody fucking hell, where is he?!” Granger muttered.

“Where is who?” Draco asked, doubled-over and heaving. It was dark, the hall lit only by torchlight and it was eerie as hell. If he was caught out of bed that would be a mark against Slytherin and the whole House would blame him if they lost the Cup.

“Dumbledore!” she railed. “He should be here! This is exactly where we ran into him when—“

The doors to the Great Hall flew open and Headmaster Dumbledore stood between them, half-moon spectacles slightly askew and rain pattering at his feet. He walked a few steps onto the threshold before he caught sight of Draco.

“Harry’s gone after it, hasn’t he?” Dumbledore asked.

Draco looked to Granger for guidance. She said,

“Tell him this exactly: ‘Ron is unconscious on the chessboard,’”

“What?”

“Did I stutter?” she said, frustrated. Her eyes were wide with worry and frustration. Hard to place which one was dominant, really.

“Ron is unconscious on the chessboard,” Draco said aloud.

Dumbledore looked at him and nodded.

“Harry is trying to keep the stone from Quirrell, but won’t be able to hold him off much longer.” Draco translated this aloud, one eyebrow raised.

“Well done,” Dumbledore said before he hurried off and left Draco standing alone in the Great Hall in his nightclothes. He glanced at Granger.

“I have no idea what just happened. Can you tell me what just happened?”

“Harry and Ron are awfully courageous, which can lead to good results and sometimes it’s just plain stupid.”

“That was not an answer.”

“In my world, I was here to warn Dumbledore that Harry was about to get himself killed. I’m not here, now, am I? It had to be you.”

“You couldn’t have gotten one of the ghosts to do it?”

“They don’t trust me.”

“Why not.”

“I am not one of them,” she admitted. “It’s lonely, you know. I thought it would be easier now that someone could see me. Someone who’s not you, I mean. But it’s even lonelier being rejected by them. Old stuffy gits,” she muttered. “Didn’t like them when I was alive, either.”

Draco laughed. Then he yawned.

“Well, I trust you,” he said, before making his way back to the staircase.

…

It moved away.

**.oOo.**

Slytherin was about to win the House Cup, and it was a great feeling. Draco smiled because Gryffindor may have taken the Quidditch Cup but Slytherin would have this. The whole school heard about Quirrell and Voldemort, and how Harry Potter saved the day. Dumbledore made it to Potter just in time and the stone had been destroyed.

It all made sense, then. Nicolas Flamel, creator of the Philosopher’s Stone, Granger had set it all up from the beginning. From that first moment in Madam Malkin’s, the first time she spoke more than a couple syllables, it was all about Potter’s destiny. Every time. Draco had spent the past few days sulking over it, wondering why everything revolved around that stupid git who didn’t even like him.

Whatever, Slytherin was about to win.

“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully from the centre of the staff table. “And I must trouble with an old man’s wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were … you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts …

“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”

Draco clapped his hands and cheered alongside his Slytherin classmates.

“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore. “However, recent events must be taken into account.”

The hall went very still. Draco’s smile disappeared.

“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes …

“First—to Mr. Draco Malfoy, who finally learned the value of trust. Twenty points!”

Dumbledore raised a glass in his direction and the students started muttering about, “What does that mean?” Blaise nudged Draco’s shoulder and he blushed a bit. He sat a little straighter after being recognized by the headmaster.

“Second—to Mr. Ronald Weasley …” Weasley went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn. “… for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House eighty points.”

Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; the stars overhead seemed to quiver.

“Finally, to Mr. Harry Potter, for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House one-hundred points.”

The din from the Gryffindor table was deafening.

“We’re tied,” Blaise told the table. “Four ninety-two to four ninety-two.”

“Finally, there are all kinds of courage,” Dumbledore said with a smile. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.”

Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well have thought an explosion had taken place, so loud was the noise that erupted from the Gryffindor table. Longbottom disappeared beneath a throng of people. Conversely, Draco was stone-still. The Slytherin table was silent.

The Gryffindor table looked at Harry Potter as though he were a true hero, the one who set the standard for the rest of them. Draco wondered if anyone would ever look at him that way.


	9. VIII: Enemies of the Heir, Beware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood is blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those moments I had been waiting to write since I began this story.

Flying is a skill as much as it is a talent, and Draco Malfoy was very good. Most people flew at low levels, but everything is different up in the clouds. Brooms are buffeted to and fro by harsh, ever-changing winds, and any attempt to steer is pointless. Up there it is actual flying, riding the winds and gliding on air. It is purely reaction and the best training for Seekers.

Draco hovered over the manor gardens for a bit and looked down at his home. His punishment for breaking into Father’s office was two weeks without flying. After an entire term watching Potter play Quidditch while he was confined to the stands, Draco found those two weeks all but unbearable. But in the end, it was worth the wait.

Father purchased him a Nimbus 2001, with a black handle and bristles so perfectly coiffed it was just begging to be flown. Draco was so overwhelmed with excitement that he hugged his father. A full-on arms-‘round-the-waist, buried his face in his father’s chest sort of hug. Lucius Malfoy had no idea what to do and just patted Draco lightly on the back in response.

Draco did a couple somersaults to warmup before disappearing into the clouds. It was a gentle day, perfect since he hadn’t ridden a broom in five months. The Nimbus 2001 was an elevated experience, almost like the broom sensed what Draco wanted it to do before he could tell it. The steering was unbelievable, and Draco had unparalleled focus as he zipped through the sky.

Water droplets continuously pinged off his goggles and clung to his hair. The wind stung his cheeks and turned his nose pink, but Draco was free and undistracted. He craved the clarity of that focus, unmatched even as turbulence nearly unseated him.

Draco descended toward the manor grounds again, zooming the length of the garden and back repeatedly to get used to the feeling of the broom closer to the ground. When he finally found land again and ripped off his goggles, Granger was there waiting.

“You’re quite good, aren’t you?” She sounded amazed and Draco was bothered by it.

“Of course I am good. Why the tone of surprise? I must be good at Quidditch where you are from, too. I am not that different, am I?”

Granger shrugged.

“I wouldn’t really know. I assumed you bought your way onto the team.”

“Bribery is a last resort, Granger, not a way of life,” Draco said, disgusted. He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. “You did not know me at all, did you?”

“The longer I’m here, the more I think that’s true,” Granger admitted. “And I accused you of making the team unfairly, which was, in hindsight, rather mean.” She paused. “But don’t think you didn’t give just as good as you got, Draco Malfoy.”

He shrugged.

“I would expect nothing less.”

**.oOo.**

Blaise and Pansy came over a couple weeks later for Draco’s twelfth birthday.

“Promise me you’ll keep your blood inside your body this time,” Blaise insisted.

This year’s present was a bit different. Draco was very confused when the house-elves came out carrying six more Nimbus 2001s.

“I only need one, really,” he said.

“The same is true of your Housemates, I presume,” Father replied. Draco’s eyes went wide as he understood. “But you are not to inform the team until after you are named Seeker. We only get in on merit, right my son?”

Draco nodded.

“I wanted to get him a new chess set,” Narcissa whispered to Ms. Zabini. “But, you know, boys and their toys.”

Blaise’s mum was beautiful. Draco knew his own mother was beautiful, but Ms. Zabini was disarmingly gorgeous. Too charming, really, and Draco knew exactly how she treated her son so he was predisposed to dislike her. Oh, and she killed her husbands for their money. But she was lovely. Her skin was much lighter than Blaise’s; her tightly-spiraled curls were combed back into an elegant updo and she wore robes of orange silk that, were Lucius Malfoy a lesser man, Narcissa would have never allowed in the manor.

Draco did not hear what Ms. Zabini said in reply to his mother, but whatever it was made Pansy do a double-take and Blaise’s eyes go wide.

“Don’t bring that up, mum, please,” Blaise begged. “Please,” the whisper was firmer that time.

“I knew it!” Pansy exclaimed with glee. “Blaise—“

But before she could say anything, Blaise had a hand clamped over her mouth. Pansy licked him but Blaise did not let go. Everyone, even the house-elves, seemed to avoid Draco’s gaze, like everyone knew something he did not. Even Granger was all shifty in the corner.

“I do not know what is going on here,” Draco said. “And I really do not care. I’m sure Blaise will tell me later.”

“No, Draco,” his mother shook her head. “He will not.”

Draco waited for Blaise to refute this, but he only held onto Pansy tighter. His gaze remained firmly on the floor and he looked ashamed. His mother, on the other hand, said,

“I think it would be great.” Blaise smiled a little at that.

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is happening?!” Draco shouted in frustration. Father scooped Draco up and threw him over a shoulder in the most undignified manner.

“No, son, it is time for cake. We can handle Blaise’s emotional crisis later.”

“Draco, can I tell you something?” Blaise asked, following an upside-down Draco into the dining room.

“Yeah.”

“Do not ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” And that left Draco even more confused. When they sat down, Pansy slapped Blaise across the face.

“Pans, it’s my birthday. Could you try to be slightly less of a bitch?”

Lucius Malfoy whacked the back of his son’s head and said, “We do not speak to women that way, Draco. Now apologize.”

“But why? She slapped Blaise!”

“He put his hand on my mouth!” Pansy said.

“Because you were being a bitch,” Blaise replied without missing a beat. Draco laughed.

“Apologize,” Father demanded. Draco slumped his shoulders and acquiesced.

“Pansy, I apologize for my accuracy.”

“Callousness, Draco. Apologize for your callousness.”

“But I don’t know what that word means.”

“It means there is a time and place for the truth,” Father interjected, “and that was not it.”

“Sounds like Pans owes me an apology then,” Blaise quipped.

“Isn’t it delightful when we get all the children together?” Ms. Zabini deadpanned.

“Delightful, indeed,” Lucius agreed facetiously.

They did, eventually, get to cake. Not before Draco cursed Pansy in French, Blaise tripped over a house-elf, Ms. Zabini snuck Pansy a sip of wine, and Lucius Malfoy had nearly committed himself to St. Mungo’s. At the end of it all Narcissa would need to buy new curtains.

**.oOo.**

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

As the crowd clapped and cheered Gilderoy Lockhart’s surprise announcement in Flourish and Blott’s, Draco asked, “Someone is going to check beneath all that hair to make sure the Dark Lord is not hanging out back there, right?”

His father said something about “such indignity” but Draco’s eyes were fixed on Harry Potter collapsing beneath the weight of free textbooks. Draco followed him to the edge of the store and watched as he dumped the books in a new girl’s cauldron. Red hair, accepting charity … Definitely a Weasley then.

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” he asked. “ _Famous_  Harry Potter cannot even go into a bookshop without making the front page.”

“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” The Weaselette glared at Draco. Bingo.

“Potter has himself a girlfriend!”

“Oh, it’s you,” came from behind. Draco turned to see Ron Weasley carrying his order of books.

“Me it is, in fact. How are your parents planning to pay for those?” He nodded toward the growing pile of books in the cauldron. “Your father heading out on another Ministry-sponsored break-in?!”

Weasley, Ron that is, went red and lunged at Draco but Potter grabbed hold of the back of his shirt.

“Father changed departments ages ago,” the Weaselette said, timidly. “He works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, now.”

“Yes, and I like it much more,” Mr. Weasley appeared out of the throng with the twins, Frank and Greg. “Kids, let’s go out—“

“Remarkable that office is actually a step up from your previous job,” Father appeared and placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder. It was odd. Granger, and only Granger, was supposed to do that. She had claimed his shoulder and she should be nearby. Lucius reached into the cauldron and pulled out a stack of books.

“Secondhand? Appears you have taken a pay cut now that raiding the homes of my friends, not to mention my own, is no longer in your job description. What is the use in being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they do not even pay you for it?”

“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” Mr. Weasley retorted.

“Clearly,” Father raised his eyebrows and dumped the books back in the cauldron. Except … What was that black book in there? Draco had seen a journal just like it before.

“Hey—“

He was abruptly cut off by a hand over his mouth. It was Granger’s and she was shaking. Draco looked up and her eyes were wet.

“Leave it,” she said. “You just have to leave it.”

“Are you okay?” Draco whispered. Granger nodded.

“Of every year I was at Hogwarts, second year was the worst.”

“Why?” Before Granger could respond, Father said,

“Draco, this year all you need to do is keep your head down, alright? No troublemaking, no fighting, keep your head down,” he emphasized.

**.oOo.**

Quidditch tryouts were a blessed escape from all the raving about Potter and Weasley and their flying car. Slytherins had the pitch after dark. Marcus Flint was captain, then, and there were two openings to fill: Beater and Seeker.

Draco waved to Blaise and Pansy, who were seated in the mostly-empty stands. Pansy would end up explaining everything to Blaise, Draco knew. But Blaise came nonetheless.

The audition for Seeker was quite simple: catch the Snitch first. Three others tried out, but only one third-year was any competition. Flint set the Snitch free and they were grounded for thirty seconds before the whistle. Draco chanced a glance back toward his friends and saw Granger take the seat behind Blaise.

“Come on, Draco! You can do it!” she cheered. While Draco knew he could, it was still nice to hear her say it.

It took him less than two minutes to catch the Snitch. His competitors said it was his fancy broom, but anyone who watched could see the others were overmatched. Six owls arrived at the Quidditch pitch the following day, each with a packaged Nimbus 2001 clutched in their talons.

They had a squabble with the Gryffindors on Saturday, and Weasley accused Draco of buying his way onto the team. Draco, of course, was unable to rein himself in.

“Right, because who can win a match against the team with the Boy Who Lived?”

“You’re only upset because Harry got to be on the team last year!” Weasley challenged.

“Oh shut up! Why don’t you go back to your Mudblood-infested House and leave the flying to the athletes?!”

As Weasley raised his wand, Draco’s first thought was that this situation was exactly what Father told him to avoid. The second thought was whether Granger would hurt him again for using that word. Both of which were drowned out by laughter as Weasley’s wand backfired. He puked up slugs! Draco fell to the ground it was so hilarious.

Granger was there for the whole event, of course. Fortunately, Draco’s skull remained intact this time, but she refused to talk to him. Even in the common room she just sat across from him with an angry look on her face. Eventually, Draco apologized.

“For what?”

“For making you angry.”

“But not for saying it.”

“It’s what they  _are,”_ Draco insisted. “Like Muggle-born is so much better than Mudblood anyway?”

“It is, Draco! It is!” She was visibly irritated. Her fingers caught in her curls as she tried to massage her head. “It is all about the way you say it and how you want it to make someone feel. The way you say it is hateful and superior, meant to make Muggle-borns feel inferior and unwelcome.”

“But I am—“

“I am not finished! Muggle-born is a fact and is unchangeable, but their blood is not ‘dirty’, it is not abnormal. Mudblood is something people believe because they don’t like change and they like to feel better than everyone else. They want to feel that their voices are the only ones that matter. New ideas push out the old and the world will continue to spin long after old thinking dies out. Blood is blood, Draco.”

“Not mine,” Draco said. “You know what my blood does.”

“But that’s not because it’s ‘pure,’ Draco. It’s because you’re a Malfoy.”

Of course, Draco never previously thought of it that way. His bloodline made him better than everyone else, even fellow purebloods.

“Even if they are all equal, I am still above them,” he thought aloud. Granger let her face fall into her hands and let out a loud groan. Draco was briefly embarrassed before he remembered no one else could hear her. “What? What’s wrong now? Why do you care so much?” She ignored the question.

“Did you know a Muggle-born?”

“That’s not—“

“Were you in love with a Muggle-born?” Draco scrunched his face because that thought was most unpleasant. Granger? In love?

“No!”

“Then why does it matter?” Draco whispered, afraid someone might finally notice him talking to himself. “Why is that word the one thing that always makes you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You do when I say it.”

Granger sat and stared at him for a long while. Her face was filled with conflict and she opened her mouth a couple times to speak, but apparently thought better of it. Finally, she said,

“Sometimes I feel like your biggest weakness is your inability to see what is right in front of you.”

**.oOo.**

“Enemies of the heir beware.”

Granger thought Draco couldn’t see what was right in front of him? He damn well saw that. It was written in blood. Mudbloods were the intended targets, obviously, but he’d kept that thought to himself because Granger would be displeased.

Draco still grappled with the idea of equality amongst wizards. Pureblood was not his only differentiator, so letting it go would be painless. But what did it say about his parents that they would fight and kill for something that was untrue? Draco found that the most unbelievable part of it all.

Granger stood at the foot of his bed. They had the dormitory to themselves as most everyone else devoured leftover Halloween sweets in the common room.

“You never told me what you found in the book,” Draco said.

“Nothing that made me feel any better. Imagine you were the first Malfoy born with purple hair.” Draco clutched the covers a little tighter. “That’s me as a Reaper. I am an anomaly.”

“That’s good, though. When people write about you they will say you were unique and the only one who can ‘merge the planes’ or whatever it is that you do.”

“Who is going to write about me?” Granger asked.

“Who wrote about the other ones?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe that is what happened to Tom,” Draco observed. “There was no one to write about him.”

Granger stiffened.

“No, that’s not what happened.”

“Aha! I knew it! You know who he is! Please, Granger, tell me. He must be the one I am most like.”

“I will never let you end up like him,” she said, resolute. “I know who it is, and I know who his Reaper is, too.”

“Is?” Draco asked excitedly. “You mean they are still out there?”

“And a lot closer to home than you think,” Granger replied darkly.

“You seem sad this year,” Draco observed.

“I know what lies ahead,” she took a shaky breath, “and it is unpleasant.”

“Do I die?”

“No,” Granger shook her head.

“Does my hair turn purple?”

“No.”

“Then what is there to worry about?”

Granger took Draco’s face in her hands.

“As long as I am around, I will do everything in my power to protect you. I promised you that, right? The chance to be the best version of yourself.”

Draco’s mouth went dry all of a sudden.

“You are not going anywhere,” he demanded.

“I hope not,” she smiled weakly.

“You know something.”

“I know a lot of maybes, Draco. But you keep surprising me anyway.”

“How will I study if you are gone? How will I get through History of Magic? What if there is a monster in the castle and you are not here to protect me?”

“You are strong, Draco, with exceptional wand work for your age. You don’t need me to protect you, and someday you won’t need me to tell you what is right.”

**.oOo.**

Gryffindor versus Slytherin

“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three … two … one”

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky. Draco loved it, and he was more accustomed to this weather than any of the others.

“Alright there, Scarhead?” he yelled, zooming beneath Potter to show off the superior speed of his 2001.

Potter was nearly hit in the head by a Bludger. One of the Weasleys tried to smack it back Draco’s way, but it changed course and flew back toward Potter again. Harry zoomed off to the other end of the pitch but the Bludger was close behind.

Draco laughed. He liked that thing.

It began to rain and the Gryffindors called for a time-out. When the game started up again, Potter turned to acrobatics, hanging upside down from his broom and such. But Draco could not let that distract him from his first real chance to prove he was better than Harry Potter at _something_. Potter could save the school, but Draco needed this, needed Quidditch because it was the one thing he always knew he was good at. Anyone could study and learn, but talent? Draco had it and, dammit, he was better than Potter.

Harry was on a ride through the stadium. Rain poured down in large sheets. Draco forced his hair out of his eyes only for another series of drops to force it back. Potter ducked and the Bludger narrowly missed the side of his head.

“Training for the ballet, Potter?” Draco yelled as Harry did a very feminine sort of twirl in midair to dodge the Bludger again. Adrian Pusey finally scored on Wood. Malfoy laughed and Potter, glaring at him in anger, sped toward him. Malfoy screamed and the Bludger came at Harry from the side.

Draco winced at the sound of broken bones. Potter dove for him again and Draco zipped out of the way.

“What the—“

Harry Potter missed Draco. He missed!

Then Draco spotted the small silver wings slipping out between Potter’s fingers. His shoulders slumped and for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy muttered,

“Oh, fuck.”

And he heard it from Flint later, too.

**.oOo.**

The Dueling Club should be Draco’s redemption. A chance to curse Potter? He was all too willing to take it. Professor Snape paired them together and Draco wore a devious smile.

“Face your partners and bow!” Lockhart called from the platform. Harry and Draco inclined their heads ever-so-slightly forward and never took their eyes off each other. “Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your charms to Disarm your opponents—only to disarm them—we don’t want any accidents—one…two...three—“

Alright,  _maybe_  Draco started on “two.” So what? The Boy Who Lived should be able to shake off a simple Flipendo charm. Potter stumbled back but held his wand aloft and shouted,

“Rictusempra!”

A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he doubled up, wheezing.

“I said Disarm only!” Lockhart shouted in alarm of the heads of the battling crowd. Potter hit Draco with a tickling jinx, and his eyes were wet as he fell to his knees in hysterics. Somehow, though, hatred can overcome even the worst laughter. Draco pointed his wand at Potter and shouted,

“Tara—“ but he was cut off by his own laughter. “Tarantallegra!”

Potter’s legs started to move of their own accord in some sort of dance.

“Stop! Stop!” Professor Lockhart screamed from somewhere Draco couldn’t identify. Fortunately, Professor Snape took charge.

“Finite Incantatem!” he shouted; Harry’s feet stopped dancing, Malfoy stopped laughing, and they were able to look up.

A haze of greenish smoke hovered over the scene. Pansy and Blaise were on the floor, panting; Weasley held onto a fellow Gryffindor, continuously apologizing for his wand; and Millicent Bulstrode had Hannah Abbott in a headlock. As Hannah whimpered in pain, both their wands lied forgotten on the floor. Draco leapt forward and told Millicent,

“Let her go.” When Millicent only looked at him in confusion, he added a stern, “Now.”

“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you go, Macmillan … Careful there, Miss Fawcett…Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot—

“I think I’d better teach you how to  _block_  unfriendly spells,” said Lockhart, standing flustered in the middle of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair—Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you—“

“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, gliding over. “Longbottom causes devastation even with the simplest spells. We’ll be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox.” Longbottom’s face pinked at that remark. “How about Malfoy and Potter?”

Say what you will about Severus Snape’s unfriendly disposition, but Draco Malfoy was beyond grateful for another chance to battle Harry Potter. Snape was just as anxious to see Potter beaten, and that made him Draco’s favourite.

“Excellent idea!” Lockhart agreed.

Harry and Draco stood facing each other in the middle of the hall, with the rest of the students circling them. Lockhart tried to give Potter some complicated advice, but Professor Snape simply whispered a spell into Draco’s ear. He’d never heard of it before but had a fair idea of what it would do. Only, why not a body-bind or something more incapacitating?

“Scared?” Draco whispered.

“You wish,” Potter replied.

They walked about seven paces back and turned to face each other.

“Three – two – one – go!” Lockhart directed.

Draco raised his wand and shouted, “Serpensortia!”

The end of his wand exploded. Everyone stared as a long black snake shot out of the end, fell heavily onto the floor between them and raised itself, looking ready to strike. Snape offered to get rid of it. (Why? Snape just told Draco to do it. He looked for Granger but could not find her.) Lockhart brandished his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack which only enraged it. The snake slithered straight to Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.

Then Harry Potter stepped in.

“Sssaye ahhh hassssyeth …”

Was he … talking to the snake? The snake fell to the floor and turned toward Potter like it expected another order. _Harry Potter is a Parselmouth? Did he just tell the snake to attack Finch-Fletchley? How did Snape know to tell me to cast that charm?_

“What do you think you’re playing at?” Justin shouted at Potter before storming out of the hall.

Professor Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. Students discussed the new events in hushed tones around them, but Draco had too many questions. Weasley pulled Potter away before he could ask any of them.

**.oOo.**

Father desperately wanted Draco home for the holidays. It was odd an odd series of letters (He even threatened another Howler!), bordering on sentimental. Normally Draco would have jumped at the chance to leave Hogwarts for Christmas, but something deep within his soul told him to stay. Of course, when he said as much to Father, it was “ridiculous” and “be reasonable, my son.” Even Blaise was confused, and Blaise understood almost everything. Pansy chalked it up to “Draco’s just weird,” and felt no need to ask questions.

A few days prior to the holiday break there was a blizzard so heavy that Herbology lessons were cancelled. Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation which was important to help the Mandrakes grow more quickly.

The first Muggle-born, Colin Creevey, had been petrified. That’s what they were calling it, “petrified.” He was stone-still, a statue lying in a hospital bed, alive but unmoving. People whispered about how it must be Harry Potter who was the heir of Slytherin. Which, to Draco, was one of the most absurd theories in history. The heir would never be friends with a blood traitor. That was the problem with pureblood society, after all. Those half-bloods were stuck on the outside looking in, with no way to know Harry Potter was one of the least-likely candidates to be Slytherin’s true heir.

It was Transfiguration next. Slytherins shared that period with the Ravenclaws, and honestly Draco would rather listen to baby Mandrakes than Loony Lovegood talk about wrackspurts. Where was Granger, anyway? He hadn’t seen her since before breakfast. As the class transfigured skunks into spoons, Millicent Bulstrode’s spell somehow hit Mandy Brocklehurst and her hair was coated in black-and-white stripes.

As the Slytherins laughed, they were drowned out by a cry from the hallway.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”

Professor McGonagall shot out the door and the class followed quickly behind. The hallway was crowded with students, each looking in every direction to find the source of the panic. There were several gasps and everyone turned to look toward the end of the hallway.

“Get the headmaster!” someone shouted, and Professor Lockhart sped away. Never to be out of the action, Draco pushed his way to the front of the throng. As he approached, whispers got louder.

“Is he dead?”

“Potter’s got another.”

“Caught at the scene!” some Hufflepuff shouted.

When Draco finally broke through the front, he saw Justin Finch-Fletchley motionless on the ground. His eyes were open in shock and his body was rigid, like a statue. But a moment later, Justin didn’t matter.

Granger was floating overtop Justin’s body, rotating slowly as if suspended from the ceiling by a string. Her eyes, like Justin’s, were open and staring blankly ahead. Her hair, normally bouncy and uncontrollable, was unmoving. Her robe floated loosely over her body, only the tips of her toes visible out the bottom, and the filmy aura that always surrounded her had vanished.

Draco’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground on all fours. He ducked his head and loudly gasped for breath. His heart beat out of control with newfound freedom, as though for the past twelve years someone had been holding his heart and they just let go. It felt like no air could get to his lungs and something took an ice cream scoop to his insides. He couldn’t breathe and it hurt so much his eyes began to water.

Things must have been happening around him but he could not be bothered to care. She had always been there. Granger had always been there and now … Draco tried to breathe in through his nose and choked, he sputtered and spat mucus onto the floor. Those nearest to him backed away and Draco sensed the increase in space. Draco took a long breath in through his mouth and lifted his head, but immediately wished he had not.

The Grey Lady whispered something to Professor McGonagall who nodded back. Draco knew it was about Granger but despair had hollowed out his chest cavity and soon filled with rage. Potter stood near Finch-Fletchley’s head, and Draco saw red.

Draco ran at Harry Potter, wrapped his fingers around the wonder boy’s throat and slammed him against the wall. McGonagall was on him immediately, and she attempted to pull Draco back but he shrugged her off and slammed Harry’s head against the wall.

“I will kill you!” he shouted.

Potter’s eyes were closed and he winced as he cupped the back of his head. Draco pulled his arm back, ready to punch. A different set of hands pulled him back that time.

“Get off me!” Draco shouted. “He’s killed Granger and I will punch him until his brain is bleeding out of his nose!”

Later on, Draco would wonder where that came from and say it was the first time he felt like his father. All his resources, his name and his money, meant nothing if they could not help him beat the shit out of Harry Potter and make him beg for mercy. As Father said, the only two things that matter are what you can do and what people think you can do. Not a single soul in that crowd believed Draco’s threat was meritless.

“Malfoy, calm yourself,” said the voice that came along with the hands.

“I … will … not!” Draco shouted, struggling to escape the grasp of Professor Snape.

“Malfoy! Draco! Draco!” Snape’s grip wavered for a moment, but not long enough for Draco to escape. “She’s not dead, only petrified. She is not dead, do you hear me?”

It didn’t matter. Draco saw Granger floating lifelessly with unseeing eyes and no cure to be had. Draco abandoned his attack on Potter then and cried out,

“Please, please help her,” he begged. He clutched onto Professor Snape’s arm as his whole body sagged. “Please help her.”

“I believe it is best everyone leave now,” a new voice announced.

Headmaster Dumbledore stood near Finch-Fletchley and McGonagall helped shoo everyone back to their dormitories. Professor Snape kept his arms ‘round Draco until Blaise came forward to catch him. Blaise was taller than Draco, so he ended up with a face full of snot in his chest. He held Draco until his breathing slowed to a nearly normal pace. Draco had balled the back of Blaise’s school robes in his fists, clutching his friend like he was Draco’s lifeblood.

Professor Snape cleared his throat. Draco looked up at him over Blaise’s shoulder. The crowd had dispersed and Dumbledore escorted Harry to the headmaster’s office.

“Professor McGonagall will take Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing, but you will need to take your Reaper there, Master Malfoy.”

Draco wished Snape wouldn’t talk to him like that. “Master Malfoy,” when he’d never felt more like a little boy without any control over his destiny. His fate had literally been frozen—petrified.

“How do you mean, Professor?” Blaise asked. “Do you mean to say, Draco will have to drag her there himself?”

“Yes, Zabini, because Draco is the only one who can touch her.”

There was no fighting that logic. Blaise dropped his embrace and Draco nodded at him in thanks. He reached for Granger’s hand, which floated about level with his head, but stopped halfway there and doubled-over, hands on his knees.

Draco gasped for air a couple times and waved off Professor McGonagall’s attempt to soothe him.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “I am fine.”

Granger’s hand was cold, like she was nothing more than a hyper-realistic ice sculpture. Her fingers did not bend or move in the slightest, so Draco wrapped his hand over her robe at the crook of her elbow and pulled her toward the staircase.

He could not look at her. This felt eerily like those six years when Granger refused to speak to him. That silence was unnerving after the mentorship they worked so hard to build between them. His only solace lied in the fact that she was not actually dead. Could Death be killed? Why would the universe send Draco a Reaper only to take her away? Had they become too close? It felt like his soul was lighter, like part of it was missing and there was a phantom pain in his chest to compensate.

When they arrived at the hospital wing, Draco awkwardly rotated Granger so she could lie horizontally in the air before gently pushing her down onto the assigned bed. Madame Pomfrey looked quizzically at the empty bed when she passed, only to receive a rushed whisper of an explanation from Professor McGonagall. Draco wiped his nose with his sleeve before adjusting Granger so she would be more comfortable.

Could petrified people feel? Could a petrified Reaper feel? It didn’t matter, really, because Draco felt like Granger knew this would happen. All that nonsense about, “You don’t need me to protect you,” was preparation for this. _She knew. She knew!_ And Draco knew he should hate her for it, but he could not bring himself to feel it as he shuffled her toward the centre of the hospital bed. Granger’s sleeves rode up then, and before Draco turned away he caught a glimpse of a cut on her left forearm. Hoping for a clue, Draco pushed her sleeve up then staggered backward at what he saw. 

> **“MUDBLOOD”**  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much else to say other than I am excited to hear whether you feel this chapter is as effective as I wanted it to be.


	10. IX: Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaise is jealous and Draco makes a new friend. These two things are definitely related.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes an entire semester, so it moves very quickly. (And is v long.) All referenced literary works and scenarios are property of either JK Rowling or Maurice Sendak. My only beta is Spellcheck, so please forgive any errors. Finally, I know how much risk it is to read works in progress. I want to thank each of you not only for your feedback and encouragement, but for trusting me to finish this piece and taking the journey alongside me.

“MUDBLOOD”

Someone carved it into her skin with a knife. It was ugly, red, and scabbed over as though it only had a few days to heal. Draco pulled the sleeve down because he could not bear to look at the word any longer.

Granger was a Mudblood.

Everything made more sense; her visceral reaction to that word was clear. How could the universe do this? How could a Malfoy end up with such a failure of a Reaper? Father would say it was because Draco was a failure of a Malfoy. Father would say it was because Draco could do nothing right, because he is weak and powerless and a disgrace to his name.

A Muggle-born Reaper with that much power? Draco refused to see Granger as a failure. She understood Draco better than anyone. Her world continuously forced her to prove herself worthy of being who she was. Granger was here with him because she had proven herself worthy, and the universe wanted her to help Draco do the same. What had she said to him?

 _Blood is blood. Where would the Malfoy line be without our money_? Draco wondered. Where would they be without a network and all the resources at their disposal? If pure blood is integral to the highest abilities of magical people, then how could a family like the Weasleys be so poor?

Nothing made sense!

All those questions made Draco’s head ache, but they would not stop coming. The Weasleys were blood traitors, but Draco thought back to the first Ministry raid at the manor. Arthur Weasley refused to raise his wand at a defenseless child, though he had every reason to hate Draco. He might be stupid, but he wasn’t all bad. Draco clutched his head in pain and bolted for the door. When Professor McGonagall asked where he was headed, Draco did not know.

“I cannot look at her,” was all he said before heading to his dormitory, which was all the way down in the damn dungeon because this school actively tried to make Draco miserable.

**.oOo.**

Once Draco hit his bed, he did not move for two days except to go to the bathroom. He had finished all his coursework anyway, and the same questions would not stop threading their way through his synapses. Blaise brought him some pumpkin juice from the Great Hall, but Draco ignored it.

He was not surprised when Pansy forced her way into the second-year boys’ dormitory. She announced herself with an obnoxious toe tap.

“Should you not be in class?” he mumbled.

“History of Magic is a glorified nap,” she replied. “Are you not going to say good-bye before I leave tomorrow?”

Draco did not answer so she pulled the covers off him.

“I asked if you were going to say good-bye to me!” Draco curled into himself. “What is wrong with you?” The concern in Pansy’s voice was genuine and it caught Draco off-guard.

“Do not pretend to care, Pans.”

“I care! I might not be Blaise, but I am your friend. Friends tell each other bye when they leave. Friends tell each other when bad shit happens, Draco, and you never even bothered to tell me what went on after Transfiguration! Not that you need an excuse to hit Harry Potter, just signal for backup next time.”

“I have a Reaper,” Draco muttered into his pillow.

“A what?”

“A Reaper!” Draco unfolded himself and sighed heavily. It felt good to tell Pansy, even if it meant she would look at him differently. Draco couldn’t continue to let Blaise support him alone.

Pansy stood at the end of his bed and blinked several times before sputtering out, “Those are a myth.”

“Does that make me a legend, then?” he quipped.

“You’re serious?”

Draco nodded and shuffled to one side of the bed so Pansy could squeeze onto the other.

“Her name is Granger.”

“Ugh, I hate her already.”

“Shut up, Pans. She was, is really, she is, um, petrified.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes and leaned on Draco’s shoulder.

“Only Mudbloods get petrified. What a waste of a—“ Draco kicked her off the bed and Pansy hit the ground with a loud thud.

“Do not speak of her that way,” he demanded.

“What good is she to you?” Pansy asked, disgusted. “She is an angel of death, Draco. You should count your blessings she is cooped up in the hospital wing!”

Draco shook his head.

“She saved my life, Pans. She helps me. In a weird way,I need her. Without her, I have so many questions and no answers. It feels like someone dug a hole in my stomach and froze half of my soul. I am empty! Granger has always been here! I trust her, Pans, and I do not exist without her.”

Pansy got off the floor and sat on top of the covers.

“How can you accept her? What I know of Reapers is that they are at your side all the time. How can you live with a Mudblood that close?”

Draco took a shaky breath in.

“Try not to judge me Pans, okay?” When she nodded, he continued.

“Part of me does not care. It did not stop her from saving my life, or from helping me learn to trust my wand. And I hate myself for thinking it. I hate that I have to question everything my parents taught me and fought for. I hate myself because this makes me less of a Malfoy.”

“Does it?” Pansy asked. Draco looked at her in shock. “Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re disgusting because that’s what Grandmum says. But one day Grandmum will die and the Muggle-borns will still be here. Why would there be so many of them if they were not meant to be here?”

“Pans, did you just make sense?”

“Draco Malfoy, you know you’re my best friend. Not my grandmother. She doesn’t get to choose who I am, and you don’t have to be your father to be a good Malfoy. For all you know, your father is the shitty one in the line.”

“I used to want to be just like him,” Draco admitted. “But what kind of man doesn’t ask questions about what he does not know?”

“A scared one.”

They said nothing for several minutes, just laid next to each other on Draco’s bed. That had gone much better than he anticipated. When did Pansy get so smart, anyway? Draco thought she would hate him for even asking questions. So he turned toward her and wrapped her in a hug.

“Bye, Pans.”

**.oOo.**

“Muggle books?”

All Draco’s friends left for the holiday, leaving him only Crabbe, Goyle, and a petrified Reaper for company. Granger was preferable even if she could not talk. In some ways, Draco found that to be a blessing.

Being away from Granger made him ill. It was nothing physical, no grand conspiracy by the universe to force them together. But she had been at Draco side as long as he was alive and losing her felt like someone had stolen his reflection. As though Draco couldn’t see himself, or how to become the best version of himself, without her. Because she saved his life, Draco felt he owed her the effort to understand.

“Are you feeling alright, boy?” Madam Pince asked as Draco stood in front her librarian’s desk.

“No, thank Merlin you asked! All my friends are gone, the dorm is so cold my Aguamenti charm accidentally froze a house-elf to a teacup, and I think I might be about to do something to disgrace my family name.”

Madam Pince looked down at Draco over her spectacles, regretting she asked at all.

“Muggle books can be found in the Muggle Studies section. Head straight this way,” she pointed, “then make a left at the legal section.”

There were books, alright. Too many of them, each one less interesting than the last. In the real ones, the pictures didn’t even move! Draco shouted in frustration as he shoved, ironically,  _Pride and Prejudice_  back onto the shelf.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked. He didn’t turn to look at her but saw her blonde pigtails in his peripheral vision and knew it must be Hannah Abbott.  Draco rolled his eyes and leaned against the shelves.

“No! I am not okay!”

“I figured as much,” Hannah smiled. “No way would you be in the Muggle Studies section otherwise.” When Draco didn’t respond she continued.

“Thank you, by the way, for what you did at the Dueling Club. Getting that awful Millicent off me was kind of you.”

Draco shrugged.

“It has been known to happen.”

“It really hasn’t,” Hannah retorted. Before Draco could respond, she asked, “What are you looking for?”

“You’re a half-blood, what do you think I am doing back here? I am trying to … I am trying to see what Muggles are like. I want something to read that helps me understand them. I am going mental, Hannah! Mental!”

“You don’t say?” she asked facetiously, but Draco plowed on.

“I think that my parents might be wrong and Mud—Muggle-borns are not actually less magical or less worthy of anything and it is making my brain hurt. I just feel like maybe if I read something, I would understand. How can I know my parents are right if I know nothing about what they taught me to hate?

“This one.” Hannah pulled a large but thin book from the lower shelf and handed it to Draco. “This is exactly what you need. It’s perfect for you.”

“It looks like a children’s book,” Draco said, carefully balancing it on his palms as though at any moment it might open up like a mouth and bite off one of his hands.

“It is a children’s book,” Hannah responded. “Start small.” Her face got serious then. “Why did you attack Harry Potter? Did you know Justin?”

Draco scoffed.

“Finch-Fletchley once confused a house-elf with a garden gnome. No, I thought I lost someone I care about and I wanted to blame him.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear about a death in the Malfoy family.”

“She is not someone you would hear about, and we work hard to keep it that way.”

“I see.”

Hannah did not see, did not know what he was talking about, but Draco did feel the slightest bit better getting that off his chest.

“But she is not gone, not yet, and I am just trying to figure out how much I should do to help her. I want to be angry at her for leaving me, but she never told me she was a Muggle-born and I have to look at myself and ask why. I was a shitty person, Hannah,” she gasped at the use of a curse word, “and I do not want to be like that anymore.”

“But why Harry Potter then? Why go after Harry?’

“Because the world likes him better than it likes me.”

“For the record,” Hannah offered her hand, “I don’t.”

Draco took it without hesitation.

**.oOo.**

Malfoy waited a couple more days before he visited Granger again. He shoved the picture book beneath his bed so no one would spot it. (Something he was sure Madam Pince would balk at.) Draco was rather lonely without Pansy and Blaise, though that Hannah girl did smile at him in the hallway.

In the hospital wing, Granger hadn’t moved. Draco’s parents sent him Christmas presents, but all he wanted was for Granger to move again. He would prefer her hovering over his shoulder all the time to the lifeless statue she had become. His parents, it turned out, could not give him everything.

“Suppose the Malfoy name cannot buy me the world, after all,” he said aloud.

Draco sat in a chair at Granger’s bedside, book in hand. Still unable to look at her, his chair was angled more toward her feet. Madam Pomfrey said, “There’s no point in talking to a petrified person!” Draco shot back, “Have they studied petrified Reapers?” He felt awkward because it was an act of rebellion to merely hold a Muggle-written book.

“You said that I would not need you to tell me what is right,” Draco said as he flipped the book open. “I wish I was as confident in myself.”

The book creaked, its spine unforgiving as Draco turned through the copyright pages. It was obviously the first time it was opened. He sighed deeply and thought of Hannah, who insisted this book was the one he needed. Part of him was offended because he was years past picture books. Maybe Muggles needed picture books for everything? Father did say they were rather stupid.

“ _Where the Wild Things Are.”_

Draco hated the protagonist immediately. He watched this boy forsake his family over a bad meal. Family comes first. Family always comes first! Draco paused frequently to make comments aloud to his Reaper. Each time, his heart sank when she did not respond.

The boy ran away to a place he could be king. Draco understood that goal, at least, but did not understand how the boy could ever leave his mother. He appeared to have what Muggles considered a normal life, but he left.

As he read aloud, Draco was drawn into the picture world. They didn’t move, but he understood how they intended for him to feel. It was wilderness, an unknown world whose creatures were untamed and listened only to the boy. Control? Now that was a desire Draco could relate to.

Then the boy began to miss the parts of his life he had not appreciated before.

“I knew it!” Draco shouted in triumph. (Madam Pomfrey shot him a disapproving glare as he’d stayed well past visiting hours.) “I knew he would come around,” he told Granger. He looked at her excitedly, but her expression was just as blank as when he first opened the book. Her sleeve was pulled down to her wrist, but it did not assuage Draco’s displeasure and confusion knowing what was there.

He flipped the page to continue reading, only to stumble through a passage.

“I have nothing now but praise for my life. I’m not unhappy. I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can’t stop them. They leave me and I love them more … What I dread is the isolation. There are so many beautiful things in the world which I will have to leave when I die, but I’m ready.”

Draco slammed the book shut.

“I am not ready!”

He stood and practically ran out of the hospital wing. Draco ran into Crabbe and Goyle on the first floor. He sniffed and asked, “What are you doing here?”

They murmured some indistinct reply Draco did not listen to, but he motioned for them to follow. (The ends of Crabbe’s hair looked orange. A spell gone wrong, probably. How two such blithering idiots were ever chosen by wands was a mystery.)

Once they descended to the dungeon and approached the wall panel where they knew the Slytherin dorm to be, Draco asked,

“What is the new password?”

They grumbled again. Truly, what were those two good for?

“Oh, right, pure-blood,” Draco said, though the word made him a little queasy. They stepped through to the common room when Goyle noticed the book.

“Why are you reading that?”

Draco was taken aback. Goyle never asked him direct questions.

“What does it matter to you what I read?” he shot back.

“Because that’s a Mug—“ Crabbe elbowed him. “Never, uh, never mind.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“I do not know what is going on with you two, but I am going to pretend whatever this is did not happen and you are going to forget about what I am not reading.”

They both nodded. That’s more like it.

Draco loved the Slytherin common room. The walls were made of rough stone and round greenish lamps hung from the ceiling. A fire crackled in an elaborately-carved mantelpiece; several Slytherin students were silhouetted by firelight in high-backed chairs.

“Are you any closer to figuring out who the heir is?” Crabbe asked.

Malfoy told them to sod off, but they were unusually persistent.

“No, I do now know who it is, and I am not looking for them. My mind is…on other things right now.”

“Other things?” Goyle asked.

“I wonder why the  _Prophet_  has not reported on these attacks. I suppose Dumbledore is trying to hush it all up. Father always said he was the worst thing to happen to this school. He refuses to tell me anything about the Chamber of Secrets, though. Just always, ‘keep your head down,’ whatever that means.

“His last letter said that the school needs to be rid of all the ‘Mudblood filth,’ but that was all really. They raided the manor again last week.” Draco shuddered. “I am so happy I stayed here. I do not even know why they bother. Do they think Mother lounges around in Ravenclaw’s lost diadem or something? They have been raiding the manor since I was seven and have yet to actually turn up any shred of evidence.

“It is there, of course. There’s the troublesome chamber beneath the drawing room and the space in Father’s office. But it is like searching through your heads to find your brains. They have to be there but I can’t seem to get to them.”

They were so insulted, apparently, that they just dashed right out of the common room. Crabbe’s hair looked even more orange on the way out, but Draco paid them no mind as he made his way to bed.

“I am not ready.”

**.oOo.**

Draco returned  _Where the Wild Things Are_  to the library the following morning. He did not read the end. By the time Blaise arrived with the rest of the students in early January, Draco was exhausted. None of his questions had been answered and he ached to feel that familiar touch on his shoulder.

“Are you feeling okay?” Blaise asked as he slid onto the bench next to Draco. The Great Hall filled rapidly with returning students.

“I feel too many things,” Draco replied and rested his forehead on Blaise’s shoulder. “I am afraid because I could leave her there. Maybe I would live longer or maybe Granger is distracting me from being the best Malfoy I can be. She is a Mudblood, and my parents would say this is what she deserves.”

“But you wouldn’t leave her there,” Blaise insisted. “I know you, and you wouldn’t do it.”

“I wish I could,” Draco admitted. “I wish I could hate her and think she is the garbage witch my parents would accuse her to be. But she saved me even when she had no reason to. She saved me to help me become the best version of myself I can be. She wants me to be the Draco Malfoy her world never got to see. How could I argue with that? How could I hate her for it?”

“You have time to make a decision,” Blaise said.

“Yeah.”

“You already have.”

“Yeah.”

Draco rotated his head so he could look toward the other tables. Nearly everyone was seated then, but Hannah Abbot stood in conversation with one of her friends at the Hufflepuff table. Draco lifted himself out of the bench and Blaise shot him a curious glance as Draco headed toward Hannah. He shouted her name to get her attention, and the nearby Hufflepuffs turned to look at him with skeptical expressions.

“Malfoy!” she smiled as he approached. “Did you enjoy the book?”

Draco noticed she had replaced her pigtails with a braid. She looked much different, a little more confident than when she first sat on that stool to be sorted over a year earlier. Something about the way she spoke to people, to him, had changed.

“It was…” Draco trailed off. “It was what I needed to read,” he admitted. “So thank you, I guess. For the recommendation.” He was not quite sure why he was stumbling over his words all of a sudden. It likely had something to do with everyone’s eyes locked on the pair of them and the not-so-quiet whispers of  _“What the hell is Malfoy doing at the Hufflepuff table?”_

“You’re welcome!” she squeaked and threw her arms around his neck in an excited hug.

The collective gasp from the student body did not have any effect on Hannah. She just stood there, aware everyone was staring but unconcerned because Draco was her friend. To Hannah, she was only hugging a friend. Draco glanced toward the Slytherin table where several students stared daggers at her. A Half-blood hugging their pureblood prince was against decorum and would not be tolerated.

Draco’s initial reaction was to push her away to make them stop staring. He stood frozen in her embrace for a moment, unsure of what to do. If he rejected her, she would face retribution. Someone would do something to her for breaking the unwritten rules of their society, rules Hannah was unfamiliar with. His decision came more from his heart than his brain.

When he returned Hannah’s hug, it was Granger’s voice in his head.  _One day, you won’t need me to tell you what is right._  The Slytherin table whispered amongst themselves; even Blaise looked a little hurt. The Hufflepuff nearest them simply muttered, “Merlin’s pants!”

As they broke apart, Hannah said, “I knew you would like it because he returns to his family in the end. Because that’s what you do for the people you love. You come back for them.”

The entire hall watched Draco walk around the table and back to his seat. Blaise did not make room for him, which was a little odd. The Slytherin to his right scooted away, like Draco had been contaminated. Perhaps he had been. Draco shrugged and reached for a chicken thigh.

**.oOo.**

Blaise ignored him for weeks. It was March before Draco cornered him after Transfiguration. Blaise had nearly reached the doorway when Draco pulled him back inside by his collar.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Draco accused.

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Blaise replied and shrugged off Draco’s grip.

“That is a lie,” Draco said. “You never lie to me.”

“And you never hug people that aren’t me and Pans, so I guess we’re even.”

Draco stepped back, appalled.

“That is what this is about? Hannah?”

“You never even told me you knew her.”

“I only really met her over the holiday,” Draco insisted. “What does it matter?”

“I don’t know if you are trying to replace me or if you’re just desperate to fill the void Granger left behind, but either way—“

“Fill the void? Do you think I can fill the emptiness with someone I hardly know? If you cannot help me, why would Hannah be able to?”

Blaise only tightened his grip on his bag. He tried to push past Draco and toward the doorway, but Draco forced him back.

“Tell me!” he whined. When Blaise did not respond, Draco switched to a commanding tone he swore to himself he would never use on his best friend. “Tell me, Zabini, why you believe I would go to Hannah Abbott.”

“Because she’s a girl,” Blaise replied as though he was compelled by some unspoken magic. Draco tilted his head in confusion.

“So is Pansy.”

“Pansy would never hurt me like that.”

“Hurt you?” Draco asked. “How?”

Before Blaise could respond, Professor McGonagall interrupted them.

“Shouldn’t you boys be heading to your next class?”

Draco never got an answer. Blaise bolted from the room immediately and Draco huffed.

“Why does everyone understand him but me?” Draco asked. Professor McGonagall sighed.

“One day, Mister Malfoy, you will have to make a decision that affects him very much,” she said cryptically. “But I believe he would do anything you ask of him.”

“I would do anything for him,” Draco replied in earnest. Professor McGonagall gave his shoulder an affectionate pat and, for once, he did not shy away from the contact.

“You should tell him just that.”

**.oOo.**

Blaise was right that Draco made his decision about Granger months earlier. They were on speaking terms again, but made up a few days prior to term when Draco hugged him and refused to let go until Blaise liked him again. Blaise blushed so hard even his chest went faintly pink but agreed he would let “such a pompous asshole” back into his life.

Of course, Potter and Weasley managed to save the day again. They found the Chamber of Secrets, rescued Ginny Weasley, and defeated Voldemort. Just how, exactly, Draco could not be bothered to ask. He was more concerned with how Voldemort kept getting into Hogwarts and infiltrating the lives of its students. But most everyone else just clapped for Potter.

Draco was summoned to the hospital wing after all the other patients were revived. McGonagall insisted Malfoy have a private moment. She, along with Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey, departed to the far side of the room after Draco was presented with the Mandrake draught.

Draco’s hands shook as he raised the cup to Granger’s lips.  _What if it doesn’t work? What if Reapers need more? What if she has been dead the entire time?_ The liquid was a disgusting brown colour, similar to Mandrakes themselves. Draco was careful not to let any splash outside her mouth. Once the glass was empty, he took her hand and waited. Seconds ticked by and Draco’s anxiety ticked higher with each one.

Then her fingers moved.

Granger gripped his hand and Draco sobbed in relief.

“Oh my God,” he exclaimed as her hair unfroze and she blinked several times in rapid succession. She coughed and her face crinkled unattractively at the taste in her mouth, but then she caught sight of Draco and smiled.

“Missed you,” she said sleepily.

Draco flung himself overtop of Granger and attempted a hug. She laughed and Draco asked,

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She tensed underneath him. Her arms around him froze as though she went back to her petrified state and it terrified him.

“How do you know?” Before Draco could reply, she muttered, “Of course. I didn’t think about that. Never thought you’d spot it.”

“I would have stopped saying it.”

“You would have rejected me and I would be alone.” Draco shook his head but he knew she was right. He needed to come to terms with this on his own.

“I would never.”

“But you knew?” she asked, tightening her arms around him. “You know what I am and you revived me anyway?”

“I wanted you back and that is what mattered. But you will never leave me again,” he commanded.

Granger smiled and kissed the top of his head.

“I am by your side, now and always.”

“Good.” He smiled back at her and said, “I read to you.”

“I heard you,” she responded. “It’s one of my favourites.”

Draco smiled even wider and said, “I missed you, Granger.” When he said that, tears appeared in the corners of her eyes and she couldn’t blink them away fast enough. She let out a shaky breath and said,

“Hermione.”

Draco tilted his head to one side and asked, “What’s that?”

“It’s my name,” she replied hesitantly. “You never called me by it, but it’s my first name.”

Draco nuzzled his face into her shoulder.

“I missed you, Hermione.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pansy is still terrible; don't start liking her too much. Hannah Abbott was referenced in the sorting chapter as someone Draco knew he could never be friends with. You'll start to see Draco is wrong about a lot of things.


	11. X: Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first half of third year. A break-up, a make-up, followed by another break-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo!! We've surpassed one thousand hits!! That is very cool to me. As always, please let me know if it gets too confusing or if I've left out some pertinent information.

The next six months passed by almost too quickly.

**.oOo.**

On Draco’s thirteenth birthday, Father summoned him to the study.

Draco sat across the desk from him and there was something different in Father’s expression as he frowned at some papers. Confusion and worry lines marred his brow and Draco knew something was wrong. Father always had answers, even if they were ones Draco did not want to hear. Just then he felt like his father might, for once, have no idea what to do.

Father sighed and Draco relaxed when he felt Granger lightly grasp his shoulder. Her presence reassured him; she made him feel safe. Nothing bad would happen with her near until it was meant to. And he hoped today it was not meant to be. Father put down the papers and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I just do not know what to do with you,” he muttered at Draco as he anxiously ran a hand through his long, loose hair. He still could not meet Draco’s eyes as he spoke.

“Traditionally, this is not a great day for Malfoy boys, but you are different. You are your mother’s son.”

“I am yours, too,” Draco insisted. “I even got into Slytherin!”

“And made a spectacle of yourself, hugging a half-blood.” When Draco shrank into the chair, Lucius continued, “Oh yes, I heard about that, my son. That compassion comes from Narcissa, but it also means you care about other people and will not abuse the power you have. I can see that in you.”

Was that … a compliment? Draco was not sure, but Hermione ruffled his hair affectionately.

“I want to be a good Malfoy, I do, but not if it hurts my friends,” he said.

“Is that what the Zabini child is?” Father tentatively leaned forward and finally met Draco’s gaze. “A friend?”

“Of course,” Draco shrugged innocently. “What else would he be?”

Father groaned loudly and let his head fall into his hands. He ran a hand through his hair and Draco had never seen his father so indecisive. Lucius Malfoy glanced heavenward for guidance.

“Draco, I know I have not been the greatest father to you.”  _No shit._  “I love you more as your mother’s son than my own. I see more of her in you than me and I never tried to accept that. I am sorry,”

 _An apology? A compliment and an apology?_  Something sinister was coming, it had to be. Father was dancing around whatever he really wanted to say.

“And I want you to be happy. Maybe I never taught you how to feel that way or I just do not understand what it takes to make you happy. That Zabini child makes you happy and there are,” Father nervously cleared his throat, “there are ways of making that happen.”

“Making what happen?” Draco asked, confused. “Why do you always hide things from me?”

“My son,” Father paused to pull his hair back into a bun. “You are terrible at reading people. Forget it. Forget I mentioned anything.”

“Father, please tell me. Explain it to me! I will listen, I promise.” But Father made it clear he had decided to move along. “At least tell me, then, what am I supposed to do to be a Malfoy?”

“Our goal as a family, Draco, is to survive. We must survive, do you understand?” He lifted his head. “The Dark Lord will return, and it will be soon. I can feel it,” he rubbed absentmindedly at his left forearm. “He will not be pleased at what I did to stay out of Azkaban. He will want to punish me, and it is my greatest fear that he will use your mother to do it. Except the Dark Lord does not understand love and instead of attacking Narcissa, my son, he will go after you.”

Draco gasped in shock. He glanced up at Granger because the sparks of magic flowing out of her fingers were like sharp pinpricks against his shoulder.

“I do not want this life for you, Draco. I do not want your mother to watch you wither under the Dark Lord’s reign. Merlin knows I do not want you ending up like Bella. There are two things you have to do for me, Draco, and two things only. You must have a son and you must do what it takes to stay alive.”

Draco nodded, “I can do that.”

“Good.” Lucius Malfoy nodded and pulled a small black box from one of his desk drawers. He opened it and turned it so Draco could see its contents. Inside, nestled around a black silk pillow, was a silver ring. Shaped like a dragon, there was a head and a wing connected by the band covered in scales in the back. The dragon was entirely silver except for the oval-shaped emeralds in its eyes. Draco had to cover his mouth to avoid gasping in surprise.

“This belonged to Nicholas Malfoy about four centuries ago and, with your given name, I feel it is only appropriate it belongs to you, now.”

 _I will not cry_ , Draco told himself. He was awestruck by the gift as he placed the ring on his left middle finger. Its emerald eyes glinted in the sunlight that streamed through the study window.

“I chose to marry your mother because I love her, and those qualities of hers make you who you are. Normally, today would have included a lecture on our values and the importance of upholding our heritage and all kinds of bullshit you do not need because you are more like your mother than any Malfoy before you. Demand respect, my son, and they will give it to you. Never forget that you come first, and you do not follow. Do you hear me?”

**.oOo.**

As the Dementors approached the back of the Hogwarts Express, Draco felt small. It was cold, the chill of fear made him sweat. Suddenly, everyone around him was in funny hats. Perched atop their heads like purple tuffets, something out of a half-formed memory. Then it started to rain blue feathers. Draco bolted from his own compartment into the next one and slammed the door shut.

**.oOo.**

First day of class ended with Care of Magical Creatures alongside the Gryffindors. The rain had cleared and the sky was a clear pale grey, the grass was springy and damp underfoot. Hagrid waited outside his hut with Fang at his feet. Draco and the dog looked at each other with equal contempt, having not parted on good terms two years earlier.

“C’mon now, get a move on!” Hagrid called as the final students approached. “Got a real treat for yeh today! Great lesson comin’ up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!”

For one nasty moment, Draco thought Hagrid would lead them into the forest. He shared a frightened look with Pansy, and even Ron and Harry, all of them thinking the same thing. However, Hagrid strolled off around the edge of the trees and five minutes later they found themselves outside an empty paddock.

“Everyone gather ‘round the fence here!” Hagrid called. “That’s it—make sure yeh can see—now, firs’ thing yeh’ll want ter do is open yer books—”

“How?” Draco asked. Many students, Gryffindor and Slytherin, nodded in agreement. Granger appeared out of nowhere and whacked Draco upside the head.

“Don’t be rude!” she admonished as Draco winced. He pulled out his copy of  _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , which he tied shut with rope, as the rest of the class did the same. Many of them sealed their books shut with Spellotape or giant binder clips.

“Yeh’ve got ter stroke ‘em,” Hagrid said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look-“ he took Pansy’s copy, ripped off the Spellotape, and ran a finger down its spine. The book shivered, fell open, then laid quietly in his hands.

“How silly we have been! We should have stroked them! Why did we not guess?” Draco asked facetiously. “Worry not, Hagrid, you fit in nicely here at Hogwarts alongside everyone and everything else trying to kill me.”

That earned him another smack upside the head from Hermione. Then he overheard Weasley say,

“Pity none of them have been successful,” and, for once, Draco did not have the energy to respond. Weasley was not worth it, so Draco made his way back to Blaise’s side. They exchanged awkward “hey”s like they had not just finished two classes with each other.

Hagrid finally regained his train of thought.

“Righ’ then, so—so yeh’ve got your books an’..an’..now yeh need the magical creatures. Yeah. So I’ll go an’ get ‘em. Hang on…” he shouted over his shoulder as he strode into the forest out of sight.

Granger came around in front of Draco and began to say something but Lavender Brown’s squealing cut her off. Trotting toward them were a dozen bizarre creatures of the same breed. Draco had not read the textbook since he wished to keep both his hands, so he was as surprised as everyone else when Hagrid said,

“Hippogriffs! Beau’iful, aren’ they?”

Uh, well, no. They had the back halves of horses but the fronts of oversize birds. To Draco, it looked like an eagle fucked a horse to produce something with a steel-coloured beak that could rip his head off his body in one clean go. Their eyes were large and orange and the talons on their front legs were half a foot long. Draco jumped backward as Hermione grasped his arm.

“Be careful,” she implored. “You do not die today, but try your best not to do something stupid.”

Draco thought they were past this. The cryptic asides and hovering over the shoulder she promised to abandon. Just to spite her, as the rest of the class moved backward, Draco stayed put next to Potter and Weasley.

“Now, firs’ thing yeh gotta know abou’ Hippogriffs is, they’re proud,” said Hagrid. “Easily offended, Hippogriffs are. Don’t never insult one, ‘cause it might be the last thing yeh do.”

Just another deadly reminder that Beauxbatons was one letter to Mother away.

“Yeh always wait for the Hippogriff to make the firs’ move,” Hagrid continued as Granger insisted Draco “back the hell up.” He looked at her out the corner of his eye and smirked.

“It’s polite, see? Yeh walk toward him, and yeh bow, an’ yeh wait. If he bows back yeh’re allowed ter touch him. If he doesn’ bow, then get away from him sharpish, ‘cause those talons hurt.”

Draco started to quake in his shoes; regret inched its way up his spine. He wasn’t quite so brave as he projected and wished he had Crabbe and Goyle at his side. Being Hippogriff food would really give their lives some purpose. Hagrid asked,

“Right—who wants ter go first?”

Most of the class backed further away, and Draco nearly did except Potter and Weasley stayed put. He couldn’t bail without them, else he would look weak.  _Malfoy men are not weak,_  rang through his mind as he twisted the ring on his left middle finger. The Hippogriffs tossed their heads and flexed their powerful wings, not enjoying being tethered.

“I’ll do it,” Potter offered. Draco and Weasley sighed in relief. The Boy Who Lived wouldn’t get killed by a Hippogriff. Someone grabbed Draco’s hand as Harry cautiously approached then hopped over the paddock fence. It was Granger, of course. She was anxious, her fingers were slick and shaky against his.

“It isn’t any easier watching it the second time,” she said.

Draco had forgotten how close she was to Harry Potter. She spent half a year in a hospital bed and Draco stopped caring about her past life. What he knew of it, anyway. 

“Easy now,” Hagrid cautioned Harry.

But the Hippogriff eventually bowed and Potter patted its beak. The whole class broke into applause. Draco turned back to see even Pansy and Blaise clap in awe of Harry fucking Potter. They went for a quick flight around the paddock above the tree line, and they all clapped as Potter slid off the Hippogriff. Seeing the way Blaise looked at Potter, with reverence and something that made his cheeks flush, had Draco seeing red. So when Hagrid insisted,

“Malfoy! Let’s try you next, shall we?” Draco bolted forward, but Hermione pulled him back.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. There was worry in her eyes, but if she wouldn’t say why then Draco wouldn’t be bothered by it. He pulled his arm from her grasp and continued forward up and over the paddock fence just as Potter had done.

“His name is Buckbeak,” Hagrid mentioned as Draco took his first steps toward the Hippogriff. Good to know. Draco looked into Buckbeak’s eyes as he bent slightly forward. “Yeh’ve got eye contact, now try not ter blink … Hippogriffs don’ trust yeh if yeh blink too much …”

Draco’s eyes watered as he forced them to stay open and stare into one ferocious orange eye. He wondered, briefly, how confident Hermione was that he would not die that day. He was terrified as he held the bow, but Malfoy men do not show fear and Draco would not be outdone by a Hippogriff. He took a steadying breath and waited.

He smiled to himself as Buckbeak bent a knee and returned the bow.

“Pat his beak, go on,” Hagrid urged.

Draco’s heart stopped for a moment as he realized he might actually die here. Momentarily humbled by his mortality, Draco lightly brushed its beak with his fingertips. Buckbeak nudged him to press harder, Draco obliged, and Buckbeak…nuzzled him? 

“Well done!” Hagrid said with a poorly-concealed tone of surprise. “I think he might be willin’ ter give yeh a go as well!”

 _Just like a broom_ , Draco told himself.

“Don’ pull any of his feathers out, he won’ like that.”

Draco placed a foot on top of Buckbeak’s wing and hoisted himself onto its back. Buckbeak stood up and Draco was unsure where to hold on because everything was covered with feathers. He nearly fell off as the twelve-foot wings flapped open on either side.

Draco grabbed it around the neck just before they soared upward. Buckbeak’s wings beat uncomfortably and caught the side of his legs like he was about to be thrown off. However, he was used to that feeling on a broomstick and as Buckbeak went higher Draco almost enjoyed himself. He could control a broomstick but the uncertainty of being on the back of a magical beast that could knock him off or tear him in two was an adrenaline rush unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

They flew even higher than Potter had. So high, Draco believed the thing was just getting ready to throw him off and prove Hermione wrong. Once they landed on the ground, rather gracelessly, Draco slid down and brushed off his pants. Hagrid kept Buckbeak back as Draco hopped over the fence.

Blaise came over and smoothed Draco’s hair back. The ring on his right hand bumped uncomfortably against Draco’s forehead. He grabbed Blaise’s hand and inspected it. The ring was a wide silver band with inlaid garnet stones.

“That was impressive,” Blaise smiled as Draco released his hand. Draco nodded because everything in the world was right again, because that smile was his and his alone. Pansy (and Blaise soon after) ran to the fence with the rest of the class because they all wanted to give it a go now that he’d done it.

Then Hermione barreled into Draco’s side and nearly knocked him off his feet. He had never been hugged so tightly.

“I am not him, Hermione,” Draco insisted before wrapping an arm around her. “Not everything is the same. It’s time you start recognizing that.” He paused for a moment then asked, “Is the other me a villain?”

“What do you mean?” she mumbled into his shoulder.

“Harry Potter is the one everyone roots for, and he must have an enemy. Is that enemy me?”

Granger shook her head.

“No. Voldemort is the villain, Draco, and you will never ascend to his level of evil. You don’t have it in you.” Draco was offended by that, but Hermione insisted it was part of what made him better than Voldemort’s followers. Better than his father. “Being evil isn’t a goal, Draco. Being good is the goal.”

“My goal is to be like my father; to be the son he wants me to be.”

“Well you are not a villain and I don’t believe that is what you want to be. Your choices have proven that. Do you honestly look at your father and see the man you want to be? Or do you want to be better?” Draco had no answer. “How did you get into Slytherin?”

“I chose to be there when the Sorting Hat asked me,” Draco said.

“And you chose to save me. You chose where you wanted to go and proved you can be good even where everyone else is bad. No, you are not a villain. You are like a firecracker and you choose which side of this war will explode. You are a Malfoy and people respect your choices. You lead and in doing so you choose who fights for whom.”

Draco smiled. He liked the sound of that.

**.oOo.**

Dementors surrounded Hogwarts, and the chill of fear could be felt within the castle walls. That’s what Dementors do, right? Prey on unhappy memories to make people desperate and afraid. Father said only an idiot like Dumbledore would allow those things near children.

Potter had fainted. Said he heard a woman screaming, though no one else did. Draco took pride in remaining conscious, but he was not immune. Making fun of Potter was mostly a deflection so no one would ask what he felt—or what he saw.

A month into the year, Draco woke up screaming. He had the dream again. He had the dream all the time with those monsters hovering just outside the windows. Tired of drowning in feathers, he sputtered out, “C-can you help me?” Which is how he found himself in an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor with Granger and three bars of chocolate. The incident on the Hogwarts Express terrified him. If Aunty Bella had been surrounded by those awful things for ten years, it must have eaten her from the inside out. Draco missed her and hated knowing the cold, heartless existence she led.

_Expecto Patronum!_

That was the spell Granger asked him to repeat. They had a half hour every Thursday afternoon to hide away and practice. It was hard at first because Draco would say the spell and nothing happened. His wand was unresponsive, as though he said nothing at all.

“You have to be happy,” Granger insisted. “What are you thinking of?”

“Flying,” Draco shrugged. “I like flying.”

Granger shook her head and insisted, “It needs to make you feel warm inside. Dementors are all about fear and cold. To combat them you need happiness and warmth.”

Draco didn’t have much to fit that description. Hermione said most people think of their family, but Draco’s family never made him feel warm. Aunty Bella’s love was a chilly sort, and one he hadn’t felt in years. Thursday after Thursday, Draco tried and failed to produce a Patronus with happy memories. Nothing worked.

**.oOo.**

Draco ended up in the library one Saturday afternoon in early October. Madam Pince looked at him suspiciously as he passed her desk. ( _Where the Wild Things Are_  might have been returned in less-than-pristine condition.) His curiosity piqued when he spotted Granger’s aura peeking out through the stacks. He walked toward it and shouted, “Hey!” but quieted as he turned around the shelves into full view.

Potter and Weasley sat at one of the long wooden tables with a book open in front of them. Granger waved her hand overtop the page and magnified words. They appeared at eye-level surrounded by a golden aura; Draco squinted and made out something about Werewolves. Like sunbeams hoisting passages off the page, in a way Granger was reading to them.

_She found a way to communicate with people and hadn’t even bothered to tell me._

“Is this what you have been doing the entire time?!” Draco shouted.

Granger looked at him like a house-elf caught with its hand in the candy jar. Weasley jumped and flipped the book off the table while Potter merely glared.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” he seethed.

“Nothing to do with you,” Draco shot back. He grabbed Granger’s hand and pulled her out of the library, leaving a stunned Weasley and confused Potter in his wake. He pushed Granger into the wall and shouted,

“How long?” When she only responded by rubbing the back of her head, Draco repeated, “How long have you been helping them?”

“As long as I needed to,” she said. Draco nodded in frustration.

“First year? That is how they did it, right? You are how they knew what to do with the Philosopher’s Stone. You are how they knew it was a Basilisk in the walls. Whatever it is they face this year, you are going to show them that, too.”

She nodded.

“Why?”

“Because this is what I need to do,” she insisted. “I have to keep the timeline on track, Draco. I have some experience with that.”

“You never thought to give that information to me so I could help? You never thought I could do any of those things and you never trusted me to deliver that information. You are unbelievable, Hermione!”

Someone walked behind him and quickly ran away from “the Slytherin boy talking to himself,” he would later hear them say.

“I know you’re mad, but you have to understand I am only doing what I know must be done to keep everything from unraveling.”

“Maybe it is meant to unravel!”

“I can’t protect you if it does!” Hermione shouted.

“You are not here to protect me, you are here to help me die! You’re not so different from a Dementor at all, are you?”

She backed away from him, then, hurt evident on her face. Granger pressed her back against the wall and disappeared through it, one hand extended toward Draco the whole way, offering him a chance to reconcile. A chance to take it back, but Draco wouldn’t. He meant what he said and he walked away.

**.oOo.**

Students were forced to sleep in the Great Hall the night after Sirius Black broke in. As teachers monitored the castle, Draco was afraid to go to sleep. Not because he was afraid of a murderer, but because he didn’t want to wake up screaming with the entire school as witnesses.

The floor was uncomfortable and unforgiving. Draco slept on his stomach, the sleeping bag an insufficient cushion at the end of the row of third-years. He was frightened but he found it somewhat funny. Murderers were fine as his own parents, but Sirius Black was an unknown and that's what made him scary.

Death frightened Draco as it always had. He was a piano key to be pressed over and over until this symphony came to an end. He could be sixteen or sixty on his deathbed for all the information Granger had given him. There was a defined endpoint for Draco, a double bar placed by the universe itself. Draco’s primary concern remained, of course, that he could not stay on that path and be a Malfoy at the same time.

With so many questions, he instinctively reached for the only person who ever had answers. Hermione was at his side as he dragged one hand out of his sleeping bag. Draco turned his head to look at her and offered his hand as a gesture of forgiveness and understanding. Hermione chose him. She could have ignored him, might have allowed him to grow up as he did in her world and condemn him to the fate of lesser men. But she hadn’t, and for that he trusted her like family. He loved her. She smiled at him as though he spoke this realization aloud and took his hand in her own.

“I made you a promise, remember? That I would give you every opportunity to be the best version of yourself. Keeping the world on track is the only way I can. Every time I doubt you, you show me how wrong I am. I want you to keep doing it. I want you to prove to me that the Draco I knew is not who you are meant to be.

“Show me who you are at your core. The things in the future will test you and they will try to break you, but I have never been more sure of anything that you will win. Until your dying day you will win and even on that day you will make me proud. I know it.”

In that moment, Draco knew it too. He would do anything to hear the pride in her voice. He smiled at her and squeezed her hand before drifting off to sleep.

“Sweet dreams,” she whispered, twining her fingers through his. She was there when Draco woke up in the morning as well. His dreams were feather-free.

**.oOo.**

In late October, he wanted to call it quits on their Patronus exercise. “I will live with the nightmares,” he insisted, but Granger would not accept defeat. As Halloween approached, Draco agreed to give it one more go. Hermione stood behind him, put her hand over his on the wand, and—

_Snowflakes._

His wand shook just the tiniest bit, but Hermione was so surprised she stumbled backward.

“Do it again,” Draco insisted. Granger obliged and he tried to focus more on that memory.

_Snowflakes. Snow soaked through my trainers and damp in my socks. Suddenly, everything is snow and I am covered in it. I crawl up through the mass and lose a glove along the way. Blaise is the first thing I see when I finally get my head above the snowline. He is concerned, but I only feel happiness. I am with my best friend and I am having fun. Granger is laughing and even I laugh through the cold. “Y-you are s-s-so gonna pay for that, Granger!”_

A silver mist sprinkled out from the tip of Draco’s wand.

_I have never seen her smile like that. There are snowflakes in her hair and her cheeks are pink like she is laughing harder than she has laughed in ages. Like she is laughing harder than she ever has in this life. I like seeing her this happy. The thin, colourful aura around her seems to strengthen and all I want is to tackle her in a hug because I have never had this much fun._

“Say it, Draco,” Hermione nudged his shoulder.

“Oh! Expecto Patronum!” Draco shouted.

A white horse-type creature burst forth from his wand and silver mist trailed it like wind. It was mostly the skeleton of a horse, though, with bat-like wings atop its back. It was beautiful in a macabre way as it galloped from desk to desk and finally toward the door. Its head burst through and, for a moment, all that was left of it was a tail and silver mist. The classroom may have been abandoned, but the corridor was active.

“Oh, no! Stop! Stop! Make it stop!” Draco frantically waved his wand, his chest seized up in fear of being discovered, and the horse vanished. Draco dropped his wand and doubled over, hands on his knees. His breath came in short, labored bursts as he asked,

“Did I do it?”

“Yeah, you did it,” Granger said worriedly.

“What was the thing that came out of my wand?”

“It was a Patronus,” she quipped.

“You know what I mean,” Draco shot back. “I have never seen a creature like that.”

“For good reason,” she sighed. “That is a Thestral, a creature you cannot see until you have watched and understood death. I just wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish you didn’t think about death all the time. I just want you to be happy, Draco. I spent so many years watching you be unhappy, and it kills me that you have to focus on dying. Why did the universe send me here to  _help you die?_ I don’t want that for you!”

Draco took a step backward. He bent over because he didn’t want to look at Hermione and disguised it by picking up his wand.

“I don’t want that, either,” he muttered.

“The worst of it all is that your happiness manifests as something you can only see through death.”

 _Because I was thinking of you_.

**.oOo.**

Something was still off with Blaise come mid-December. They were in the common room with Pansy; she and Blaise engaged in a serious game of Wizard’s Chess.

“Blaise,” he whined and let his head fall onto Blaise’s shoulder. He felt it dip as Blaise sighed.

“What?”

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“He thinks you are keeping secrets from us,” Pansy interjected. Blaise shot her a death glare but she continued, “And I think he’s right.”

He was not keeping secrets from them. In fact, they knew his biggest secret. When he said as much, Blaise huffed and pushed Draco’s head off his shoulder. Something was very, very wrong.

“Whatever I did, I am sorry for it,” Draco rambled. “Tell me what it is and I will fix it. Just do not shut me out like this!”

“Me? Shut you out?” Blaise laughed sardonically. “That’s great, Draco. Glad you had a good laugh.”

“I do not understand,” Draco insisted. “Tell me where I messed up and I swear I will fix it.”

“Being a Malfoy is where you messed up,” Blaise said. Draco looked at him quizzically and stood up from the table. Blaise did the same, and Draco lost the advantage as Blaise was a half a head taller. “You’ve made your decisions already about your future, about the kind of life you are going to lead, and there isn’t any room for me in it.”

“Of course there is room for you in my life! There always will be. Where the hell is this coming from?” Draco diverted his attention. “Pans, did you say something?”

“I didn’t say anything, Malfoy,” she said and Draco cringed at the formality. “But, for the record, you have been spending a lot of time away from us.”

“Then why—”

“Look at your father, Draco. The only person in his life is your mother.”

“And they love each other,” Draco said. “What is the harm in that?”

“So where do I go, Draco?” Blaise asked, his voice quiet. “Where am I in your future?”

Draco’s brain went offline. He never really thought about it. He was only thirteen after all. Blaise was fourteen, but that’s not so mature. They had years before Draco got married. A decade, even!

“I don’t know but why should it matter?”

“Because I know what you want,” Blaise scoffed. “Be a good Malfoy, be the best Malfoy, be like your father, right? Why the hell does it even matter to you? Why is that the most important thing?”

Draco could not answer at first. He never thought of it as though there was another option. No other future was ever presented to him. Draco finally settled on,

“Because it is what my family needs me to do.”

“Your family? You truly believe all your mother wants is for you to be a good Malfoy?”

“It is what Father wants,” Draco insisted.

“And you would do anything to please him, wouldn’t you?” Blaise said through gritted teeth. “You would do whatever is necessary even if it meant throwing away your own happiness because all you want is to make your father love you.

“It might have escaped your notice, Draco, but there are other people who love you.” He wrapped a hand around Draco’s shoulder and took a half-step closer, the space between them fraught with confused tension. “Other people,” Blaise cleared his throat in embarrassment as people around them had begun to whisper indiscernably. Blaise stepped backward and broke all contact with Draco.

“Other people who love you for who you are regardless of whomever you try to be.”

By “some of us” he meant himself. Draco knew it; he understood on some level but it only angered him. Blaise dredged up thoughts and feelings Draco worked tirelessly to beat back into the darkest depths of his subconscious. What if he was right? What if being a Malfoy meant nothing more than fucking the first bint he convinced to marry him and raising that child just as apathetically as Draco’s father had raised him? Is that what his future held?

He anxiously fiddled with the ring on his left middle finger.

Draco would become a child soldier for one side of a war he didn’t support, all to please his father. He had not yet asked him to do it, but once the Dark Lord returned it would be inescapable. He knew it was wrong, yet he would fight for his father’s approval. As for what it meant to be a Malfoy, Blaise sure as hell didn’t have the answer.

“It doesn’t matter how many of us you surround yourself with. This whole House loves you, considers you royalty, even, but if you don’t show us—if you don’t open up to us, to me, then you are still alone. Your future will be as unhappy as your father’s.”

“What concern is my future to you?” Draco asked, frustrated.

Blaise appeared hurt by the question. He raised a hand to his chest and his brow crumpled a bit before he said,

“You don’t mean that. You know exactly how much you mean to me and I only want to see you happy. It kills me that you are willing to condemn yourself to unhappiness because your father feels like you are a failure otherwise. You don’t exist to please him, Draco!”

They started shouting, then.

“But I do!” Draco ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I do exist for that purpose! Malfoy men have sons so they can have more sons!”

“And what kind of loveless life is that?”

“My father loves my mother,” Draco insisted, upset at Blaise’s implication otherwise.

“Your father married for love and it damned him to one son,” Blaise combated, but he instantly regretted it. Draco saw red and considered lunging for Blaise.

“At least I know who my father is!”

The rest of the common room, practically the whole House who had pretended not to listen in, gasped in shock. No one brought up Blaise’s father. No one ever asked about it. Hell, even Draco knew never to inquire about it and asked his own mother instead.

For his part, Blaise was calm. Draco shot a glance at Granger but her crossed arms and disappointed expression signaled to Draco he was on his own. Blaise narrowed his eyes and re-entered Draco’s space so they were nose-to-nose.

“I know who my father is, Malfoy, and I would never let him plan my life for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blaise standing up for himself is so satisfying. I thought it would be interesting for Draco to produce a Patronus based on his new memories. Thank you so much for taking this journey with me, even when progress can be rather slow. I am so grateful to have y'all's feedback and I only hope you remain as connected to this story as I am.


	12. XI: Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco learns not to be a cornhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday weekend!! Two chapters in one week!! We are halfway through third year, now, and halfway through this story. I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for the encouraging feedback you leave me. This is the longest, most intense fic I have ever attempted.

Everyone stared at Draco as Blaise stormed out the common room door. Crabbe and Goyle were trying (and failing) to shrink into a corner and Theo Nott stared at Draco in disbelief. The door slammed shut and the only noise was the crackling of the fire.

“What are you looking at?!” Draco shouted at both no one and everyone. He kicked at the table before stomping up the stairs to the third years’ dormitory. He locked the door behind him and slammed his pillow against his bed. He screamed in frustration as Granger stepped through the door.

“Did you stop to think that a closed and locked door might be a clue that I do not want to talk right now?!” he shouted.

“What you want isn’t what’s best and you have no right to be angry.” Granger admonished. “You need to stop being an idiot! What you said just now was mean and unwarranted.”

“Blaise implied I would abandon him! Then he insulted my family. A family who, I might add, has always taken him in when he needed a temporary home.”

“Don’t you think he knows that? He hears you screaming at night and wonders why you never talk to him about it. Your friends see you suffer and wonder why you won’t go to them. It looks like they are failing you and you keep pushing them away.”

“I do not need their help with this!” Draco yelled. “Not from Pansy, not from Blaise, and I wouldn’t have asked you if I could have helped it. Asking for help is weak.”

“Asking for help is the only way you get stronger!” Hermione countered. “They are your friends, and you trusted them enough to tell them about me. Dementors affect you more than everyone else because you are closer to Death, closer to me. If you just told them as much, they would understand.”

“How can you know?” he asked. “Blaise never even told me he found his father.”

“Did you ask?

“No, but he never said—

“You pour yourself into him and he is there to support you, but you never do that for him. He deals with your issues and his own, so I don’t blame him for being angry when you refuse to reciprocate. He would have told you, if you only let him know you were willing to listen. I know because he told Pansy.”

“He told Pans?” Draco asked in disbelief. “Before me?”

“Because you shut him out,” Hermione said. “Blaise wants to be your best friend and right now you’re not letting him. It scares him to think there might not be space for him in your life anymore.”

“That does not excuse him. He said I am not enough for my father. He knows not to talk about my mother like he did. He knows that!”

Hermione groaned and plopped onto Draco’s bed next to him.

“Do what you want, Draco. If you want to live your life alone, then this is how you will feel all the time. The world will close in on you. Blaise would put himself between you and Voldemort to keep you safe, if that’s what it took. Not everyone has a friend like that. Most people don’t even have lovers like that, and you will let him slip away because you think he makes you weak?”

Draco had no response. Rationally, he knew Hermione was right and there was no parity in the friendship, but what does that matter? Blaise knew Draco’s deepest insecurity was not being enough of a Malfoy for Lucius. Blaise knew it and he said it anyway in front of all their friends. Draco dug his nails into the comforter.

“You need to reevaluate how you value the people in your life,” Hermione said.

“I just want my friend back! I do not understand why he has been acting weird since I hugged Hannah Abbot last year. I thought we were okay, but he has only been more distant. Now he is angry at me and for what?”

“Maybe you should ask him,” Hermione insisted. When Draco did not respond she fed him the answer. “He is jealous.”

“But I told him not to be!”

“And I told you to stop being an idiot, yet here you are.”

**.oOo.**

Blaise and Draco avoided each other for a week. The entirety of Slytherin House refused to talk to Draco, because the Malfoy name only goes so far when Blaise Zabini’s happiness is on the line. Blaise sat at the end of the table in the Great Hall, nearest the teachers. When Draco arrived late on Saturday morning for breakfast, none of his housemates moved over for him. Draco, after standing at the head of the table for a full minute of everyone staring at him, broke for the Hufflepuff table. He stood behind Hannah and asked, “May I sit here?”

She moved over and Draco took a seat. He could feel Pansy’s glare burning holes in the back of his head, but it served them right.

“Did you finish that Defense Against the Dark Arts essay?” Hannah asked, entirely too calm considering the situation. The Hufflepuff on his right, Finch-Fletchley, sat as far away from him as possible. Draco was drawn to Hannah’s tendency to spit in the face of pureblood decorum. She seemed to be friends with just about everyone and considered Draco no different. Even if the rest of the Hufflepuff table looked a little wary.

“Yeah, a week ago,” Draco replied. “No one is speaking to me, so I have a lot of time on my hands.” He could not disguise the bitterness in his voice.

“I heard,” Hannah said. “What you said to Blaise was cold.”

“Unbelievable! You are taking his side, too?”

“Look where you are sitting, you dimwit. I just mean that maybe you shouldn’t have gone after his dad.”

“But—”

“All I know is what I read about his mum in the papers, but it does not seem like she really has enough love to care for him. Who, then, does Blaise have in his life that loves him?”

“Me,” Draco said immediately. “And …” Not his mum, really. Stepfather number two had come closest, but he died eight years ago. Pans, maybe? It was hard to tell with her. That he had to think at all was an answer itself.

“And look at what you did to him,” Hannah said before biting off a piece of bacon. Draco was suddenly not very hungry. “I know enough about Blaise to know that he tries to be decent to everyone. Is it really surprising that everyone would rally around him?”

The staff table was mumbling.

“He said that I wasn’t enough,” Draco whined.

“Again, I don’t know him all that well, Draco, but maybe he said it because he wanted you to know how it feels. He has never been enough for anyone except you, but now you make him feel unworthy, too.”

Draco sighed.

“He told me he is jealous of you.”

Hannah chuckled, “I bet.”

“What is that supposed—”

Draco was cut off as someone gripped him by the collar and hoisted him off the bench. He looked over his shoulder to see Professor Snape. Hannah’s face lost its colour and the Hufflepuffs had parted the table bench like the Red Sea. Snape half-dragged Draco to the end of the Slytherin table. He pushed Blaise down the bench and threw Draco into his lap.

“Work it out!” he demanded in a stern voice before retreating to his place at the staff table.

Draco lifted his face from Blaise’s leg to see him shocked and embarrassed. He bolted for the door before Draco could say anything. Pansy muttered,

“That was so unnecessary,” and the other Slytherins nodded in agreement.

“Malfoy!” Marcus Flint shouted from halfway down the table. Everyone in the Great Hall turned to look at him.

“You are off the team until you fix whatever happened between you and Zabini.”

If Draco hadn’t wanted to hide under the table before, he sure did then.

**.oOo.**

Draco’s pride kept him from approaching Blaise and Granger taunted him mercilessly. She helped Blaise with his homework, communicating the same way she did with Potter and Weasley. Draco took some small satisfaction that Blaise fell out of his chair in shock the first time she tried it.

He was an outcast on their first trip to Hogsmeade, only Crabbe and Goyle willing to keep him company. The Christmas holiday came none too soon, and Draco knew something was wrong when his mother showed up at King’s Cross alone.

“We are spending Christmas in Paris, mon destin!” she revealed. Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I said so, and you will listen to me, Draco Black Malfoy, without question.”

Narcissa was worried. She only used his full name when she was frightened of something. Her smile wavered and it wasn’t meant for him, it was for the other parents milling about the platform. She refused to tell him anything until they were at their apartment in Paris. Draco took her hand and went through the toothpaste tube-like feeling of side-along apparition.

When they arrived, Narcissa nervously tucked her hair behind her ears and motioned for Draco to sit on the couch. The apartment was fairly small, used for sneaking away unnoticed to the heart of the city because the villa was too well-known.

“Your father received a tip from one of his friends at the Ministry.”

_She means “from one of the people your father has repeatedly threatened.”_

“They are planning a raid on the manor for Christmas morning, under suspicion we are hiding Sirius Black.”

”Why?” Draco asked, confused. “We do not know him. He was not a Death Eater.”

“They do not know that, Draco, and they refuse to hear it. I welcome the Dark Lord’s return if for no other reason than I can slaughter those Ministry bastards who delight in destroying our home. We rebuild and they tear it down. We rebuild again and they will tear it down again. But I know how you reacted last time and I will not make you sit through it again.”

“What about Father?”

“Someone must stay as a witness. We have to know what they touched and how close they got to the valuables. They will never get to them, of course, but if they seem to know what they are looking for we know someone found out.”

Draco nodded in understanding.

“I am so sorry, my son, we did not get you a present this year. Everything has been such a mess, we even cancelled the annual Christmastide ball. They punish your father continuously even though he gave them information to assist in the capture of a dozen of his cohorts. I am so tired of being a scapegoat, of being punished for my last name.” Draco knew that feeling. Narcissa kept pacing in front of him like a caged lynx.

“And I am worried about Lucius. Neither of us has ever faced this alone and you know your father is incapable of controlling his temper—”

“Then go,” Draco insisted. When Narcissa refused to leave him alone over the holidays, he said, “Hermione will be here. She has saved my life once already and I would trust her to do it again. Plus, we have the house-elves.”

“I tried to get Ms. Zabini to take you,” Narcissa admitted, “but she refused. She said Blaise was inconsolable about something. What do you know of it?”

“That is my fault,” Draco admitted. He grabbed a pillow and hugged it to his chest. “I thought having him so close made me weak. That is what Father would say.”

“Oh, no, mon lou lou. No,” she murmured and sat on the couch next to him. She wrapped him in a one-arm hug.

“You never met your grandfather, thank Merlin. He died of Dragon Pox during Lucius’s seventh year at Hogwarts. I would not have married your father if Abraxas was still around, mind you. He was a wretched man who nearly ruined Lucius. All he had was his father and Lucius lived to impress him. Just lived for it, Draco, and he never got that affirmation.

“I do not want that for you. Perhaps I have not said that enough, but all I want is for you to be happy, Draco. That is all I want.”

“Father says I have duties as a Malfoy.”

“Your father says a lot of things and does not always understand how they affect people. What is it that I have always told you, my son?” Narcissa asked.

“Never bend,” Draco responded instinctively.

“That is right. Never bend, never allow anyone to tell you what it means to be a Malfoy. Never let anyone deter you from what you want to pursue. Your father will not love you less for going after your own happiness because I am never going to love you less for it.”

“I think you are wrong,” Draco mumbled into the pillow. He used his left thumb to absentmindedly rotate the dragon ring he wore on his middle finger.

“Oh, my son. When Abraxas died, Lucius was lost. He nearly dropped out of Hogwarts trying to figure out what to do with the business and the manor and all sorts of adult things he simply was not ready to handle. Your grandfather left him no foundation, no relationships, nothing to build upon. He believes that figure-it-out method is how life should be lived because it is what he knows. Sometimes, Draco, you have to accept your father does not know what he is talking about.”

Draco laughed aloud at that. Narcissa ran her fingers through his hair and Draco felt a little better.

“If Blaise makes you happy, let him in. He is a pureblood, quite smart, and he is very handsome.” Draco hummed his agreement. “He does not have many people in his life who care for him. His father does not know Blaise is his child and husbands one through six were not around long enough to matter. The only reason we allowed him into our home is because he is important to you, we care for him because you care for him.

“You are the one person he has, Draco, and if you shut him out of your decisions then you are abandoning him. Abraxas did the same to Lucius and look where it put him emotionally. If you cannot commit to Blaise, if you truly think he does not make you better, then let him go now so he can find someone else to help him grow.”

“I don’t want there to be anyone else.”

“Then I think you have your answer, mon destin.” Narcissa playfully whacked him with another pillow and laughed. “Truthfully, I do not think he would leave you unless you asked him to.”

“I would never ask him to leave. Does that make me selfish?”

“C’est cela l’amour, tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour.”

“I cannot do that; you did not raise me to do that.”

“We should have taught you better; I should have taught you better,” Narcissa admitted. “Somehow Blaise Zabini, who has never had someone teach him how to love, chose to give you all he has. Forgive him for his anger, my son. Forgive him, and trust him, then he will be who you need him to be. He merely needs to know that you understand how far he is willing to go for you.”

Draco nodded into his pillow.

“Je t’aime,” he said.

“Moi aussi, je t’aime.”

**.oOo.**

On Christmas morning, Draco curled up in his bed with some hot cocoa. He looked outside as snow continued to fall atop the roofs across the street. The house-elves had done their best to make it feel worthy of the holiday, they even trimmed a tree for him. But without his mother and without presents, it felt less like Christmas and more like exile. Hermione plopped onto the bed next to Draco, but it reacted as though Hermione weighed nothing. Draco sighed.

“Mother is right. Hannah is right. You are right. I was too focused on what I could take from Blaise and never thought to give him anything in return. He has always been there and I did not realize that value until he was not willing to give me … himself, I guess, anymore.”

Draco struggled to articulate what he had done wrong. Everything sounded like something his mother would say about his father. His words sounded more like he was describing his lover than his best friend.

“I think if you start asking the right questions, you will find people easier to understand,” Hermione replied.

“What about you?” Draco asked.

“What about me?” Hermione asked. Draco pulled on one of her curls and watched it spring back into place.

“Anything. I do not know the right questions, just tell me anything.”

“I don’t—”

“What is the last thing you remember?” Draco asked. “Tell me that, at least.”

“Oh, my …” Hermione groaned and laid back onto the pillow. Draco watched as she squinted her eyes closed and sighed.

“There was a battle between Voldemort’s forces and everyone else. Hogwarts was destroyed, families were torn apart and people were slaughtered without thought. I watched my friends die, Draco. I watched dozens of green lights pass by and could only pray none of them managed to hit me. Fourteen-year-olds raised their wands knowing that if they lost the battle, their parents would be killed in the days afterward. That’s what the Death Eaters did to rebels. They left you alive and killed everyone you care about while you watch.

“I wonder, now, what it is like for them. Someone has to pick up the rubble. What is it like to lift up half a wall and find a body underneath? When do the emotions of rebuilding an entire world become too heavy?"

Draco realized, then, how much Hermione must have gone through in those final moments. Her last moments before being ripped out of her old life and forced into his. He'd never been without her but Hermione had what, at least sixteen years of memories weighing down her perception of him. Memories she could only try to watch as they passed by in this world.

“I was on the run for almost a year leading up to it," she continued. "Hiding from people rounding up Muggle-borns and, of course, trying to get to Harry. But we found our way back and I did it because some things are right and some things are wrong. Voldemort was wrong, he is still wrong, and you made some very bad choices along the way. You chose wrong.

“The only comfort I have in this life is knowing you are not the Draco I knew.”

“Well I am, aren’t I?” Draco asked. “We are the same. We have the same parents and the same upbringing and the same soul.”

“I’m not here,” Hermione admitted. “Maybe if I hadn’t been at Hogwarts you would have turned out better. Maybe I ruined you.”

Draco took a sip of his cocoa and laughed.

“That is the stupidest thing you have ever said to me. “You are here, just closer,” he insisted. He nudged her leg with his foot to emphasize their proximity. “That is the difference. You saved my life in the forest when you had no reason to. No one told you to protect me and no one told you to make me a better man. You keep telling me that everything depends on my choices, but you made the hard choice when you saved me. The universe would not put you by my side unless I needed you in a way it failed me the last time. The universe learned from its mistakes, Hermione, and you were not a mistake.”

She wrapped one arm around Draco’s waist and pulled him closer. He tucked himself into the crook of her arm and nestled into the folds of her cloak.  _She really does look like a Dementor in this thing_.

“Honestly, Draco, I’m scared. I don’t know if I am actually Hermione or if I am just a copy. We talk about the universe that put me here, but who decided to put me here? All we know is that I am here to walk you to your death, to hold onto you as you die and convince you not to run away. Will you ever look at me and see anything else?”

Draco thought about it for a moment.

“I see my friend.”

**.oOo.**

“MALFOY FAMILY FINED FOR INTERFERING IN MINISTRY INVESTIGATION” read the headline of the _Daily Prophet_  on December 26th. The article included a number of pictures from the raid, a new low for their reporting. Draco immediately regretted looking at the photos, but also could not pull himself away from the devastation inside his own home. It was so battered it felt foreign to him.

The first was a shot of Father leaning against the parlor fireplace, the left half of which had been blown off. Light brown burn marks were visible on the roughened marble edges. His eyes were closed and his head tilted upward as though he was asking for guidance from the divine.

The second was a photo of Narcissa standing next to a fallen chandelier in the east wing. The highbacked chair in the background looked like someone took a knife to it several times as the fabric preened outward from each slice. There were more burn marks in the wood paneling of the walls. Mother was bleeding from one hand and her blonde hair was pink in places where she’d ran her fingers through it. 

Draco was grateful he was not there to witness their heartache. Merlin only knew what Mother did to rein Father in. He looked exhausted. Lucius Malfoy was once the man who knew everything, but each time Draco saw his father he seemed to have fewer and fewer answers. They were fined, of course, for “interfering” when the Ministry aurors likely engaged in provocation. For a moment, Draco wished Father had Cruicio-ed them until even their funny hats screamed in agony.

Narcissa arrived to take Draco back to King’s Cross in early January. She said nothing until they arrived at the station, her left hand still bandaged from the raid more than a week earlier. Draco never had murder in his heart before but when he looked at his mother’s hand sliced open like nothing more than a common household chair, Draco had more hatred in his heart than he knew it could hold.

“Draco!”

The hatred vanished and his heart stopped when he heard Blaise call his name. There, on the platform in front of the scarlet steam engine, was Blaise running at him full-tilt. The world itself seemed to stop spinning on its axis. Blaise’s relaxed curls stood out from his head like a bush that bounced with each frantic step. His olive-green coat complemented his brown eyes and—

_Hold that thought._

He barreled into Draco, his trunk forgotten several metres back, and wrapped his arms around Draco’s shoulders.

“Oh my God, oh my God, I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know, I would have let you stay with us, I am so sorry …” All his words ran together because he couldn’t say them fast enough. Like he had held them in since December 26th.

“I am never going to refuse you like that again, I promise.” Blaise pressed a quick kiss to Draco’s cheek and he leaned into it. Blaise ran his fingers through Draco’s hair and pulled Draco’s head into his chest. “Merlin, I feel awful. I saw the photos and realized how badly I fucked up.” He insisted, “You should never have to face anything like that alone.”

“Don’t,” Draco mumbled. “Do not blame yourself, this is my fault. I should have admitted I was wrong. I left you to face everything alone but expected you to be there for me. You are my best friend and I was not treating you the way you deserved. I thought keeping my weakness hidden would make me feel more like the man Father needs me to be, but I ended up punishing us both.”

Blaise perched his chin atop Draco’s head, and Draco felt oddly at peace. Even as Ms. Zabini loudly cleared her throat, he just wanted to stay covered in Blaise for awhile. Much like Hermione used to, Blaise shielded him from the outside world for a moment. Draco played with the fringe of Blaise’s scarf, too ashamed to look him in the eyes.

“Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?” he asked.

“I would be here even if you weren’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one thing JKR has always said about the Malfoys is that family comes first for them, and I wanted to show them recognizing they haven't done enough. Lucius had his moment in the last chapter and Narcissa has hers here. 
> 
> Comments and criticism are always welcome!!


	13. XII: Malfoy Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah Abbot is a treasure and Draco is not as clueless as he used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: "Draco learns how to be a decent friend."

Nothing tried to kill Draco in the spring semester, and he quite welcomed the change of pace. Slytherin House seemed to forget they were angry with him. Pansy threw her arms around him as he sat next to her at the welcome back feast. It was an apology and a hug, and Draco patted her arm in reply.

The rest of the House asked if he was alright and Draco confirmed he was away during the raid. Miles Bletchley asked where Draco spent the holiday. When Draco admitted he spent the time alone, Blaise hung his head in shame. The people around them started whispering, and that fact made its way down to either end of the table. Before the break Draco had been ostracized, and they took Blaise in with similarly admonished looks.

“Did—did the Malfoys ask you to take him in?” Theo asked Blaise. When he nodded, Flora Carrow gasped.

“You refused a direct Malfoy request? You can’t do that!”

Strictly speaking, she was right. There were certain things expected of people within the pureblood hierarchy. Namely, if someone above makes a request, the lower party is expected to honour it. There was no one higher than the Malfoys. That Ms. Zabini refused was an indication of how close their families were; that Blaise asked his mother to do it indicated how angry he had been.

Graham Montague asked, “What’s the punishment, then?”

Someone further down the table insisted, “Malfoy wouldn’t punish his boyfriend.”

“Blaise is not my boyfriend!” Draco insisted so loudly half the Hufflepuff table turned to look. He blanched and Blaise choked on a sip of water. Pans patted him on the back a few times and he was fine.

“Are you okay?” Draco asked. Blaise nodded in response.

“Just dunno why you had to be so quick to deny it.”

Draco didn’t know either. Blaise looked hurt, and whether it was from regret or the boyfriend comment it was unacceptable. Draco raised his voice so most of the table could hear him say,

“Yes, Blaise refused my request to stay with him over the holidays, but I was unworthy of making that request. I expected Blaise to be there for me even when I gave him no reason to believe I would ever be there for him in the same way. That is wrong and he deserved better, so I am going to be better.

“As for the rest of you, I do not recall anyone batting down my door with an offer. By the time Christmas Eve came, all of you must have known what was about to take place—half your parents work at the Ministry! Yet, none of you offered to take me in. Why?” Draco paused as his peers grumbled.

“Do not be so quick as to condemn my closest friend when it never even occurred to the rest of you to assist the Malfoys. Blood is blood, and my family has gotten where we are because we know who our friends are. See, Blaise refused me with cause and Pansy’s grandmother is ill. The rest of this House, which I consider my second family, forgot about me when I needed you most. You should take a long look at where you are in the hierarchy and then wonder how much longer my father and I will allow you to remain there.”

The whole table stared down at their plates, chastened and unable to meet his gaze. The half of the Hufflepuff table closest to them was silent and pretended not to be listening in. Draco channeled his mother when he next spoke.

“If any of you unfairly judge Blaise Zabini again, every breath you take from that moment forward is a gift from me, as I will, to be delicate, end you.”

_People who hurt those you love are not permitted to do so more than once. Mother threatened a dozen wizards, wands at the ready, because they threatened me. After all, what good is power if it cannot be used to protect the ones you love?_

He watched as the corner of Blaise’s mouth twitched upward, unable to fully hide a smile. Draco instinctively reached for Blaise’s hand but stopped halfway there and disguised it by picking up his fork. He couldn’t tell whether Blaise noticed. Draco’s heart leapt into his throat, both at making Blaise smile and in fear of being caught too … intimate.

_Merlin’s pants._

**.oOo.**

Slytherins had Potions with the Ravenclaws the following day. Professor Snape partnered Draco with Theo because “he needs help and is not hopeless like those other two buffoons you call friends.” Blaise and Pansy looked up from their cauldron, offended, before Professor Snape nodded his head toward Crabbe and Goyle.

Any time Draco went outside the castle or from class to class, he gravitated toward them. Dementors still roamed the castle grounds and their presence alone stoked the embers of his fear. Of everyone, Crabbe and Goyle were the two he felt most comfortable using as shields; their fate meant nothing to him. To everyone else, though, it must have appeared they were close friends. Snape was trying to be funny.

Theo jumped backward as Draco violently squished a caterpillar with the side of his knife. He might have pressed too hard, but he ached for a distraction and their attempt at a Shrinking Solution was not cutting it. Professor Snape came over and took Draco’s knife away to demonstrate.

“Slice, Master Malfoy, not squish,” he said, delicately sliding the blade through the bug lengthwise.

Draco took the knife back with a huff and went back to work. He allowed Theo to watch and ask questions, but he did all the work. His hands and his brain needed to stay busy so he could avoid thinking questions he did not want answers to. It was a testament to his distractedness that a Ravenclaw managed to produce a better solution.

He hung back after class. Crabbe and Goyle waited by the door expectantly, but he said, “I’ll catch up,” and dismissed them. Professor Snape paused putting away leftover ingredients when he noticed Draco hadn’t left.

“Do you need something, Malfoy?”

Draco nodded, his mouth a little dry. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.

“Professor, I know you are knowledgeable about the dark arts, and I do not have anyone else I can go to so I thought you might—”

“Out with it!” Snape demanded. He was always so damn impatient.

“I just—” Draco let his shoulders slump, something Snape would have known Draco was not permitted to do in formal company. “I want to know if there is there a way to wall off parts of your brain.”

“To make it so others can’t see into your head?” Snape asked.

“No, I want to know so I can stop feeling things I do not want to feel. I cannot stop whatever it is, and I am afraid to even put a name to it. I want to pretend it does not exist so if I could just build a wall around that part of my mind …” Draco trailed off.

“Your mind, or your heart, Draco?” Snape asked.

Draco’s mouth fell open. He had never heard Professor Snape’s voice so soft, so empathetic. It sounded as though he was drifting through his own memories, and Draco could not answer his question because it would be too close to a confession. Snape’s brow furrowed, he sighed deeply and said,

“You cannot manipulate your own mind. Memories, yes, but those are thoughts and feelings your brain has already processed. Your desires, Draco,” he cleared his throat a little awkwardly, “are part of who you are at your core. When you look at yourself you should want to see the whole of you. Do not get eaten away by destroying parts of yourself.”

His expression darkened and he placed his hands atop his desk for something to lean against.

“I know what that does to a person and how it affects everyone around them. It is a horror of the worst sort.” His expression shifted, like he was debating himself internally. “All I can say to you is that if love is strong enough it never goes away, so do not push it away. In some cases you can’t get it back no matter how hard you try to claw your way back into someone’s life.

“You are young, so I am sure it feels like anything you do now can be undone or repaired, but it can’t. There is nothing worse than losing someone you love because you were too afraid of what would happen if you chose them.”

Draco didn’t know if he was talking about Blaise or Hermione. Not that Draco was in love with either one of them because that would be ridiculous. They were his friends and he was supposed to love his friends and that was all he felt. (That was the biggest lie he’d ever told himself, but maybe if he repeated it enough it would become true.)

“Any choice you make will disappoint someone, just don’t disappoint yourself. Now hurry along, you’re late for Charms.”

_Thanks for the pep talk, Professor._

Snape’s sentimental demeanour changed instantly back to his combination of apathy and disdain for the world. Draco came to Snape because he wanted an academic answer, a prescription. If he wanted to talk emotions he would have written his mother.

Draco did not know whether to thank him or press for more, so he just turned and walked away.

**.oOo.**

Hannah caught up to Draco a few weeks later as they left the Great Hall after lunch.

“Malfoy!” she shouted. Draco turned around and was accosted. She was a hugger but he didn’t mind much. People rarely touched him; it was improper. He refused to touch Blaise or Hermione because every time he did something fluttered in his stomach. Sometimes he’d let Pansy sit in his lap because it felt good to just hold someone. He held Hannah a little tighter than usual.

“How are you?” he asked as she pulled away.

“Great! I earned Hufflepuff twenty points yesterday in Herbology.”

The rest of the Slytherins were staring again, whisper-shouting as they made their way to the dungeons. They were not a subtle bunch and Hannah eyed them warily.

“I heard what you said about people not offering to let you stay with them. If I’d known—”

“My mother would not have allowed it,” Draco shrugged.

“Why are you like this?” Hannah asked, following Draco down the stairs. “If your parents don’t like it and your friends don’t like it, then why are you my friend?”

“Because you helped me make a very important decision,” Draco admitted. “Friends help each other, something I only learned recently. I, myself, am a rubbish friend so I collect all the best ones to compensate,” he joked as they stepped into the Slytherin common room.

The room stilled like the air had been sucked out of it. Draco realized he’d just walked a half-blood Hufflepuff into the snake pit. Hannah, stiffened at his side. They stood in the doorway, every disdainful eye turned on them, and Draco had half a mind to push her back into the corridor.

“Oh, God, my father is going to hear about this,” Draco muttered.

Not to be deterred, Hannah made her way to an empty table. She pulled a quill, parchment, and a jar of ink from her bag before sitting down. Draco plopped dramatically into the chair across from her. The rest of the House stared and the youngest of the Carrows clenched a fist as if to say, “This is our turf.” Hannah saw this, of course, and began nervously scribbling on her parchment.

She did not look up for a couple of minutes so Draco asked what she was doing.

“I love my mum, but I’m closer to my dad.” Draco didn’t understand how that was an answer to his question. “He’s a Muggle, you know, really wants me to experience that world. Mum permits it, but I really do like being a witch. All kinds of stuff is easier. But, Dad collects comic books and--”

“What the hell are those?”

Hannah did not look up as she dipped her quill in ink again.

“They’re like picture books. But the pictures don’t move or anything they just …” She struggled to find the words. “They still tell a story.”

“But if they don’t move, then how can they tell you anything?”

“If the drawing is good enough, you figure it out,” Hannah quipped. “One day, I hope to be very good.”

“Good at what?” Pansy asked, plopping herself onto Draco’s lap. He opened his legs so she fell onto the chair and he perched his chin on her shoulder. She was one of the last people Draco expected to make a move, much less a conciliatory one. It broke the tension and people watched with intrigue.

“Hannah wants to be good at drawing pictures when she gets older,” Draco scoffed.

“I think she’s quite good now,” Pansy remarked and swiped the parchment from Hannah’s hands. She held it aloft and said, “It looks just like you.”

The drawing did look a little like Draco, but he wouldn’t admit that aloud. She nailed the pushed-back hair and the posture but …

“My face is not that pointy,” he insisted. Pansy and Hannah shared a laugh.

“It really is.” Pansy grabbed his chin and pushed his face to one side. “Look at those cheekbones! Sharp as Basilisk fangs.”

She held the drawing aloft for everyone nearby to see and shouted, “DOESN’T THIS LOOK JUST LIKE DRACO?!” They all nodded and “oohed” and asked, “Did you just draw that?” Hannah blushed. Pansy grabbed another piece of parchment and demanded, “Draw me!” as she fluffed her jet-black bob.

Hannah laughed and obliged her. The Pansy was truer to life, in Draco’s opinion. She loved it.

“We absolutely need one of Blaise,” Pansy demanded. “Oh! Could you draw one of the three of us?! He’d love that.”

“I’d be happy to do that for you,” Hannah said.

“Where is Blaise, anyway?” Draco asked.

“He was strolling the grounds with Dean Thomas last I saw.” Pansy’s voice went all high at the end like she was teasing a question.

“Dean Thomas?!” Draco was certainly not jealous. He really wasn’t. “Am I starting a trend? Are we all getting half-blood friends now? You going to cozy up to Finch-Fletchley next, Pansy?”

“Ew! Gross!” she sputtered.

**.oOo.**

Hannah became their adopted Hufflepuff. She was only permitted through the door if she had quill and ink, and not a single dormitory was without an example of her work. Not everyone was quick to warm, though. Father heard, as predicted, and sent Draco a nasty letter. He knew when it arrived, addressed only from his father, what he was in for. He shoved the envelope in his bag, but everyone at the Slytherin table saw the despondent look on his face over breakfast. Even out of sight, it called to him throughout the day. He opened it after curfew as he leaned against his pillows.

> “My son,
> 
> Perhaps when we spoke on your thirteenth birthday I was too delicate. I failed to impart that compassion should only be shown to those with the proper blood. I implore you to recall that young girl’s mother was once a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, yet you never met her or this Hannah girl. They were burned off the hierarchy and exiled. Non-judicious marriages to those of less than pure blood will result in the abdication of your place and privileges as a Malfoy, and you know that is not an option for you, my son. Think of the dynasty you would end. It would throw our society into chaos.
> 
> There is too much resting on your shoulders for you to mess around with some half-blood. We have a status to maintain, an image to uphold, and I will not allow your immaturity to destroy that. Should you wish to pursue the Abbott girl, do not bother returning home this summer.
> 
> Your blood is everything, my son. I told you once that it would open many doors and you must only step through the right ones. You know how I hate to repeat myself. Do not disappoint your mother like this. We want you to be happy and the only way to ensure that is to carry out your duties as Malfoy heir. This is a choice that cannot be undone. Hannah Abbot is not worth your destiny. Think it through, Draco.
> 
> -Lucius Malfoy ”

Draco wasn’t sure when he started crying. It wasn’t something he was allowed to do. He had made a conscious effort to stop, but this was too much. Just another part of his mind he wished to keep quiet.

_Your mind or your heart?_

Fuck Snape and his stupid emotions. Draco could wall off as many parts of himself as he wanted. That’s what Malfoy men do: they keep themselves hidden from everyone except the Narcissas of the world.

The side of Draco’s bed dipped and Blaise squished himself onto it, overtop the duvet. He wrapped an arm around Draco’s shoulders and plucked the letter from his hands. Draco buried his face in Blaise’s chest, the flannel nightshirt there to dry the ugly tears and snot. Draco curled into himself, a tiny ball snuggled into Blaise’s side.

“Merlin,” he sighed as he finished reading. “Draco, if you want to date Hannah—“

“You know I don’t,” Draco sniffed.

“Honestly, I know nothing about what you want in love.” There was a bitterness there that Draco couldn’t dwell on. “But I know this House was brought up to see you as our leader. The future of the hierarchy is in your hands, and we will stand by you, whatever you choose to do with it.”

That none of the other boys in the room denied Blaise’s point was all the affirmation Draco needed.

“You’ve been talking to Hermione,” Draco guessed.

“Only a little,” Blaise smiled and played with Draco’s hair. “We have more in common than you’d expect.” He awkwardly cleared his throat. “You are our leader, not your father, for the six years before you and the six after you and who knows how many after them.”

“Father is trying to guilt me with my own happiness, did you read that? ‘Don’t disappoint your mother, all she wants is for you to be happy’ nonsense. If he knew Hannah at all, he could see how ridiculous the two of us would be. She is not actually that smart, she is at the bottom of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Couldn’t defend herself against anything unless she hugged it to death.”

Blaise laughed. Draco spun his dragon ring around his finger a couple times.

“You know I would take you in, right? I promised I would never make you go through anything alone, and I meant it.”

“I promised you I would be a good friend, but you still keep doing it so much better than me,” Draco admitted. Blaise pressed a light kiss to the top of his head.

“Practice.”

In the morning, Blaise’s hand had fallen to Draco’s shoulder and there was a puddle of drool on the pillow much too close to Draco’s hair. He shimmied delicately out of Blaise’s grasp and quickly glanced backward. Blaise was peaceful in sleep, his dark curls long and relaxed against the headboard. Draco smiled.

 _Mon ange_.

His eyes widened.

_Oh, mon Dieu!_

That’s what happens when the walls come down for one moment too long. Draco practically jumped out of the bed, the noise covered by Crabbe’s snoring. He pulled on trousers and a sweater, brushed his teeth, then padded downstairs in socked feet.

No one else was awake so he paced in front of the fireplace, which still roared from the night before. He held the letter in his hand. How could Father know what made him happy when Draco himself hardly knew what it felt like? 

Granger leaned on a high-backed chair next to him but said nothing. Her presence was even more frustrating because she was normally a compass he could use to find the right direction he needed to take. This time, Draco wanted to do it alone. There was something in the letter he did not quite understand. “Hannah is not worth sacrificing your destiny,” Father wrote.

_Destiny cannot be sacrificed—it is predetermined and more powerful than any prophecy in the Hall of Mysteries. My choices create my destiny.  Hannah, Blaise, Pansy, all part of my destiny because I chose them. I made my choice when I reawakened Hermione. Destiny is about my decisions, and what is it Snape said?_

 

_There are some choices that cannot be undone, no matter how badly you try to claw your way back into someone’s life._

When everyone finally meandered into the common room, Draco stepped on top of a table and it took mere seconds for everyone to fall silent. He crumpled his father’s letter in his fist.

“I do not know who told my father about Hannah Abbott and I do not care. But I am forced to question your loyalty to me.” A couple gasps were heard throughout the room. “My father is a great man, a cunning leader, and he is blinded by pride. But if there is one thing he taught me that I know to be true, it is this: your enemies you can count on to be enemies and your closest friends you can count on to be loyal. Everyone else is a piece of shit unworthy of your time.

“Hannah Abbott is my friend. She helped me when she had no reason to,” Draco stole a glance at Hermione who was definitely blushing. “Which is more than I can say for the rest of you. And you like her! She is a good person and maybe we should value that a bit more.

“I am not asking you to change your beliefs. You choose whom to follow and what you value as ‘pure.’ All I ask is that in your loyalty to me, you respect my friends and my choices. If you do not, you are weak and unworthy of your place in this House.”

_My House._

Draco stepped off the table and threw his letter into the fire. Hermione beamed at him, pride in her eyes. He smiled back at her.

**.oOo.**

“Someone must have a Mudblood friend!” Pansy shouted, but none of the Slytherins were willing to own up to it. “I can’t believe we waited until the last minute. We are going to have to bribe someone—”

“We?” Draco teased. (In fairness, it had been his need to prepare for the Quidditch match against Ravenclaw that delayed their timetable. He caught the Snitch in time for the win.)

“You are going to have to bribe someone,” Pansy amended.

Hannah Abbot’s birthday was in mid-April and they were running out of time to buy her present. She endured a lot of taunting from Draco’s Housemates at the beginning, but as she grew closer to them she also lost out with her Hufflepuff friends. That Hannah hung around Loony Lovegood so often wasn’t a great help to her reputation, either. Granger said she often saw them together in the library, huddled over their drawings at a back table. Hannah was trying to work it all out, Draco knew, and he felt it was only right to replace what they had taken from her.

They eventually roped Dean Thomas into their plot. Draco was fairly sure he grossly overpaid, just shoved some Galleons into Dean’s hand and asked if it would do. Dean’s eyes went about the size of saucers as he nodded.

Draco got half of Slytherin House to fit into the Hufflepuff common room, so when Hannah came back from her birthday lunch they shouted, “Surprise!” alongside the rest of her House. She was like Blaise in how everyone seemed to like her, even if she’d been a little distant. Draco wondered how they did it, what made them so approachable and lovable.

He nervously stepped forward, fingers tight around the box holding her present.

_What if we got the wrong thing? What if she already has one? Worse, what if she doesn’t want it? What if we really fucked this up? Why the hell did I put my faith in Dean Thomas’s Muggle mother?_

Draco handed Hannah her present and said, “From the whole of Slytherin House, happy birthday.”

She sat in one of the nearby black armchairs to tear open the wrapping paper. (Daphne Greengrass did a fantastic job, in Draco’s opinion.) Draco was terribly nervous. When Hannah opened the box to reveal a sketchbook and fineliner pens, she just stared at them for a moment, which seemed to suspend ages longer, and Draco was about to be strangled by his own worry when she finally picked up the pens to examine the colours.

“Did we do okay?” Pansy asked nervously. Hannah nodded. She placed the box on a honey-coloured table and stood to wrap Pansy in a tight hug. She then threw her arms around Draco and whispered,

“This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me, you stupid git.”

Draco laughed and held her close. There were tears in her eyes.

“Well we used so much of your parchment we had to repay you.”

“But you got me something better! You can’t get this at Flourish and Blott’s. I know it probably doesn’t matter to you, but these are very expensive.”

“Just promise that when you are a famous cosmic book artist, you will draw my face a little less pointy,” he joked.

“Comic books,” she corrected halfheartedly. She stepped away from him and shouted to the rest of the House, “Thank you so much. This is too thoughtful, and I know how hard it was for you to take me in and make me your friend. I can’t really say anything else because I just can’t believe you all are this nice to me! Except you have to deal with this prat all the time, so I’m sure you’ve had a lot of practice.”

For the first time in his life, Draco had preemptively done something nice. He found it satisfying. It was nothing compared to what Blaise and Pansy did for him every day, but Hannah’s happiness was worth every Galleon.

**.oOo.**

At the end of third year, Draco’s parents were not on the platform when he stepped off the Hogwarts Express. He hauled his trunk down the steps and pushed it against the wall. Blaise looked at him quizzically but it was Pansy who finally asked,

“Where are your parents?”

“They will be here,” Draco insisted over the roar of the crowd. “They told me they would be late, something about Ministry business.”

The lie came too smooth, too quick. Blaise knew; Draco could tell by the way his lips tightened together and his knuckles went white where he gripped his trunk handle. Pansy bought it, though, and ran to her grandmother further down the platform.

“They will be here,” Draco whisper-shouted at Blaise.

“You don’t need to lie to me,” he replied. “I hate it when you lie to me.”

Draco looked down at his shoes, then quickly up at Granger further back. She looked worried. He shifted on his feet and crossed his arms, trying to make himself small.

“Stay with me for a few minutes,” he asked. “I do not want anyone else to see this. It is their punishment, you know, for Hannah. Make it look like they abandoned me, cause me all sorts of embarrassment because I embarrassed them. Merlin, this is stupid.”

“Do you want to come home with me?” Blaise asked hopefully. “Mum will take you in as long as you like. She just broke off the engagement with number seven and has all kinds of chocolate around the house. Perfect for eating your feelings.”

Draco laughed and, admittedly, considered it for a moment. He watched the rest of the students and their parents slowly meander off the platform. Ms. Zabini stood near the exit, nonchalant.

_Why is she not offering to take me home?_

 

“My parents would have asked your mother not to take me,” Draco realized. “They manipulated this!” Draco kicked his trunk, drawing more attention to himself.  _Smooth_. “Fine! Fine.”

 

“ _I_  will take you,” Blaise insisted.

“Leave it alone, Blaise. I will handle this.”

“But I’m not asking you to! I’m not asking you to handle this alone. Why do you not want me to help?”

“Because I cannot use you every time my parents or the Ministry or, I dunno, Harry Potter makes life a bit more difficult!” Draco said. “I made a decision; and I will accept the consequences, unjust as they are. And if you take me in defiance of another request from my parents, where does that put you in the hierarchy?”

“Next to you, where I belong,” Blaise replied without hesitation.

Draco swallowed hard and stared at his shoes again because behind those words there was an implication he didn’t want to acknowledge … but also did not wish to refute.

_Walls up. Eyes up._

“Go home,” Draco demanded. Blaise cocked an eyebrow.

“Is that a request?”

“I would never do that to you, and you know it.”

“All I know is what I want, and I do not want to leave you here alone.”

Draco looked over Blaise’s shoulder at Granger in the distance and said, “I am not alone.”

Blaise nodded and stepped forward to wrap his free arm around Draco’s shoulders. Draco burrowed into his chest; it was easy to pretend everything was okay with Blaise wrapped around him like a blanket. Blaise pulled him in closer and, not that Draco saw, Theo Nott gave him a nod of approval before disappearing into the station. Blaise played with the ends of Draco’s hair and sighed.

If his hand lingered a bit too long against Draco’s neck, neither of them said anything. Draco couldn’t look up as Blaise turned away. Only a few students remained on the platform and he huffed angrily. He shouldn’t have let Blaise leave like that, but some things needed to be handled alone.

_This is Malfoy business._

Granger had been awfully quiet throughout the ordeal. She had gotten much better about realizing those moments she needed to be scarce and knowing when she was needed. Draco dragged his trunk to where she stood and offered his hand.

“Hermione, I need you to take me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: "Blaise knows Dean Thomas is bi and they discuss pining for their clueless best friends"  
> Alternate title: "Snape is still terrible but Draco is his favourite student so he's less shitty to him"
> 
> Draco doesn't need Hermione prodding him to be good anymore. I'm so proud of my clueless little prince learning not to be such a crappy person. *dabs away tears with Kleenex* Comments and criticism are always appreciated.


	14. XIII: Ignorance, My Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shouting, dancing, and a bit of foreshadowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon content referenced is from "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" and belongs to JK Rowling. No copyright infringement intended. I have no beta, so please forgive any spelling and grammar errors.

Apparating alongside Hermione was a unique experience. It was more like a Portkey than any side-along he’d ever been squeezed through. It seemed like he was lifted off the ground by some invisible hand on the back of his trousers. They spun around rapidly and, now they were nearly the same height, Draco buried his face in her shoulder instead of her chest like he used to. Hermione wrapped her arm around his waist as he started to slip away. That was fine, Draco was fairly certain he didn’t want to see the world spinning around him. Then he was thrown backward onto the ground outside the manor gates.

“It worked! I miss doing magic. That felt so good!” She glowed with satisfaction. Normally her colourful aura coated her like a second skin, but it pulsed outward and her smile was wider than Draco had ever seen it. He did not quite have the nerve to ask why she couldn’t have gotten them closer. Draco took a step forward and let out a sigh of relief as the gates opened.

“What?” Granger asked.

“They would not have opened for me if Father did not want them to,” Draco replied. He never truly believed his parents would kick him out, but Father threatening it in the letter was enough to make him wonder as he dragged his trunk along the path.

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he used the front door. Most times they Flooed in through the parlor or Apparated directly inside. The front door is for visitors. White peacocks roamed about the gardens and half the manor’s rooms appeared lit. It was strange for Draco to see that life inside went on without him. He hoisted his trunk up the stairs, Granger close behind. Once on the landing, he could only stare at the door.

“Am I supposed to knock?” he asked, disdainfully. A house-elf opened the door and Draco threw his trunk on the foyer floor.

“Lord Malfoy was not expecting you for a long time, Master Draco,” one of the house-elves squeaked.

“Where is he?” Draco demanded.

“Upstairs, Master Draco, but it may be an inconvenient—”

“Shut up!” Draco shouted as he made for the stairs. He didn’t know whether Granger followed and didn’t care. This was not her business. Draco stomped petulantly up the stairs and made for his father’s study. He heard his parents shouting from several metres away and could not bring himself to interrupt.

“What else are we to do, Narcissa? Your son is out there cavorting with half-bloods, causing everyone else to question whether we are still fit to lead them!” 

“Our son, Lucius! Our son. Whatever this girl is to Draco, she is not Blaise Zabini and you know it. I know Draco and it is not like that.”

“I do not know if the Zabini child would be better or worse, Narcissa. I cannot understand where we went wrong. Regardless, he puts our position at risk while he does this. We could lose everything!”

“Oh, do not be so dramatic,” Narcissa chastised. “They cannot take away this house, this business, or your name. There is a difference between tolerance and rejecting everything we taught him. Draco is exhibiting compassion and mercy, both of which will matter when the Dark Lord returns.”

“We needed to teach him a lesson,” Father insisted.

“Not this way,” Narcissa replied. “You discount the role we played in this. Mon cher, I do not believe he understands what he wants. He seemed ... willfully repressed.”

“Willfully repressed?”

“You see them together, you know how I mean it. He does not understand the depth of the love he has for this boy because you failed to tell him—”

“I told him there were ways of making that happen,” Lucius insisted.

“Did you tell him he would still be your son if it does?” Father sighed heavily and Draco heard him sit down hard, as though he’d lost the energy to stand. “It is not me holding him back, Lucius,” Narcissa continued. “It is whatever you put in his head. We drove him right to this Hannah girl.”

“I disagree.”

“To hell with your disagreement! Our son will reject us every bit as much as we disavow him. Embarrassing him is not the answer, it will only drive him closer to those Muggle-loving whorebrains we burned off the hierarchy. Perhaps if we go get him now he will not be as angry—”

“Oh, he is angry,” Draco chimed in from the doorway.

Both parents looked to him in surprise. Father was perched on the edge of his desk and Mother had her arm overtop one of the armchairs by the fire, which crackled away. It was the only sound as several seconds ticked by before Father finally asked,

“How did you get here?”

“Through the front door,” Draco quipped.

“Draco—” Narcissa stepped toward him, but she was cut off.

“How long would you have left me there, Mother? An hour? Was I meant to find my way back alone? Admit it, Father, you would have preferred I not find my way back at all. The grief of losing a son is better than the pain of having a failed one.”

Lucius pushed himself off the desk and walked toward his son.

“You are not a failure, Draco,” Narcissa insisted.

“I want to hear Father say it,” but Lucius only glared in Draco’s direction. “You can’t, can you? If you had another son, you would hate me. If Mother could have another son, you wouldn’t even consider me a Malfoy! Go ahead, excommunicate me, then what will you do? Find another wife?”

Lucius Malfoy slapped his son’s face with an open palm and the sound reverberated throughout the room.

“You are not to talk about your mother that way!”

Draco worked his jaw into place and rubbed his cheek. He expected that; Father had held it in for a long time.

“You have never been what I wanted you to be,” Lucius said. “You have always been weaker than I ever was; you could drown in your own tears you used to cry so goddamn often. For someone who is meant to lead the only remaining dynasty in wizarding Britain, you are an embarrassment.”

Draco was not about to back down as his chest heaved with pent-up rage.

“You want me to believe that, don’t you? But I do not believe that is what this is about. You do not like that I consider Hannah Abbott to be my friend, but you do not hate me. You said you wanted me to be happy and Hannah makes me happy so all I want is for you to understand that! I don’t think you care whom I spend my time with. My question is, who does?”

“Everyone, mon loulou,” Narcissa said. Draco turned to face her. “Everyone else cares. Do you believe I would have entertained the notion of stranding you if it was not serious? You do not understand the indignity of what you have done!”

“Everyone in the House—”

“Is a child, Draco!” Lucius shouted. “You are a child, they are children, and none of you have any power. Their parents, however, have begun to wonder if we are the right people to remain atop the hierarchy. The Carrows are threatening a rebellion so you cannot date this Hannah girl.”

“I do not want to date her!” Draco shouted, exasperated. “Merlin’s beard, why does everyone assume I would?”

“Because the alternative is that …” Father stopped short of actually saying it when Narcissa shook her head.

“They would not rebel, not now," Draco insisted. "Who would replace us? The Zabinis? They would have a new king every six months. The Carrows? Just set fire to the whole of Hogwarts and be done with it since all they want is to watch the world burn.”

“However right you may be, my son, they may do something drastic. They will want to send a message and I do not know how or when, but they will do it to warn you. They will do it to hurt us, so I wanted to distance your mother and myself from your decisions. You do not know these people, Draco, not as we do. The moment they start to believe we no longer protect their best interests—”

“Well perhaps you should explain to them that making friends with people outside the hierarchy is the only way we survive! That is what you told me is the most important thing: to survive. I am just doing what you asked of me.”

“This is not how I asked you to do it,” Father replied.

“What your father means,” Narcissa said, “is that you must be prepared for them to retaliate and you must handle yourself accordingly.”

“I am not giving up on Hannah!” Draco shouted and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

**.oOo.**

The ballroom was still scarred from the Ministry raid. Nothing anyone would notice with a cursory glance, but it was Draco’s home. He knew when it changed; the room felt different. The wood paneling was darker in areas where curses had ricocheted. The chandeliers were completely new, the old ones irreparable.

“You will need to learn how to dance this year.”

Draco jumped, unaware Hermione had followed him. He rolled his eyes.

“I know how to dance.”

“When did you learn?” she asked, curious.

“Sometimes I think you forget how much of my life you missed,” Draco shot back. Admittedly, he was on the road to forgiveness but it was paved with bitterness and snide remarks. Hermione looked down at the floor, ashamed.

“We have galas and balls all the time. You cannot attend these things and not dance, especially someone of my stature, so I started taking lessons with Pans when I was five. Pans is a terrible dancer, by the way. She concentrates too much and has no sense of rhythm.”

Granger laughed. “Show me,” she demanded.

Draco, never one to shy away from a challenge, ran a hand through his hair before nodding. He was fourteen, after all, he could waltz with a woman and be mature about it. He took Hermione by the waist and realized he could look down into her eyes.

“When did you get taller than me?” she asked, only half-joking.

“I’ve been taller than you for a bit, just needed to catch up with the height of your hair,” Draco deflected.

Hermione put her hand on his right shoulder and asked, “Ready?”

Draco nodded and stepped forward with his right foot as Hermione stepped backward with her left. They spun in a circle, then forward again, then back again. Draco looked decidedly anywhere but Granger’s eyes. There was something very obnoxious inside his stomach just bouncing around as it pleased. There was no music so he kept time to Hermione’s breathing.

It was odd to finally feel her, really feel her beneath the flowy black cloak she had always worn. Draco saw her as a mess of hands, head (bushy hair), and feet, everything between little more than a mystery. She felt nice and … female? She felt different from Pansy, both in how her lower back felt against his hand and this strange tension in the six or so inches of space between them.

Another full circle, pause, a half-circle, forward, back, forward, just like he practiced years ago. Thank Merlin for muscle memory because Draco’s brain had short-circuited. Hermione could touch him, wrap herself around him, and shield him, but she had never allowed Draco to touch or guide her in the same way for more than a few moments at a time.

It had been nearly a full minute and Draco was convinced she would pull back at any moment. She didn’t.

Draco spun her around again, a couple times, and when he finally looked her in the eyes she was overjoyed. Hermione looked like she was having fun. There was a glimmer in her eye he had only previously seen when she was doing magic. He noticed her aura had shrunk to be almost invisible against her skin. Draco felt closer to her than he had ever been, like the last barrier between them was coming down ever so slowly. Hermione leaned her head back the slightest bit and closed her eyes, which is when Draco took her right hand in his left.

“Let’s say we do this properly,” he smirked. Hermione laughed again and the bouncing creatures in his stomach quickened their pace.

It was easier to lead her with both hands like this, one at her waist and the other on her dominant hand. She was surprisingly deft on her feet, but perhaps she, too, had taken lessons. There was no way for Draco to know. He was certain Hermione would only follow someone she trusted implicitly, and was honoured by that distinction. After all, he had worked fourteen years for it.

Draco stretched out their arms so they were nearly side-to-side when they spun in the next circle. He switched it up to prevent dizziness, but just looking at her smile made him a little woozy. Clearly one of the house-elves put a little too much butterbeer in his drink at dinner because there was no reason for him to be this lightheaded. He returned to the waltz frame and stepped forward, then backward once more.

He stopped and placed his foot on the inside of hers before rotating ever-so-slightly side-to-side on the balls of his feet, much like one would see in a wind-up Muggle jewelry box. He stopped so they were nearly side-to-side again, looking at each other intensely. Hermione looked just as confused as Draco because there was something there that shouldn’t have been. As they continued to spin and step in concert with each other to the soundtrack of their breath, Draco knew this moment is what he would remember next time he needed to produce a Patronus.

The realization hit him so hard he dropped his hands and sighed. He coughed to break up the awkwardness of the moment and Hermione insisted,

“You are very good.”

“As are you.”

“I am sure you will make someone look very good at the Yule Ball,” she quipped, disappointment evident in her voice. Draco didn’t want to ask what that was about. Ignorance was his only friend these days, so he walked away.

**.oOo.**

As repayment for the Ministry raid on Malfoy Manor which turned up nothing, and after Father threatened to go to the Wizengamot with a suit, Minister Fudge allowed them to sit in his box for the Quidditch World Cup. While Father questioned the fairness, Draco was more than happy to take the deal. Mother, of course, was simply happy for an excuse to show off her new coat.

The stadium itself took over a year to construct. Seating one-hundred thousand spectators, it was the single-biggest arena and wizarding event in the world. Ireland versus Bulgaria, Draco was not actually sure which team he wanted to win. Both were amazing and the two teams everyone expected to advance once they were seeded.

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. As Draco and his parents climbed higher, the crowd slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. At last, they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows, the front seats packed with Weasleys and a Potter.  
  
Draco took in the field as Father spoke with Minister Fudge. It looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position, and they were just about eye-level with the goal hoops. Apparently his father had made an introduction, but Draco hadn’t bothered to listen. Who cared about the Minister of Magic when Viktor Krum was about to be  _right there!_  
  
"How do you do, how do you do?" said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Narcissa, who looked at him disdainfully and tightened the belt of her coat. Lucius shot her a reproachful look that said,  _Be nice._  "And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk - Obalonsk - Mr. - well, he's the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can't understand a word I'm saying anyway, so never mind. And let's see who else - you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?"  
  
It was a tense moment as Father took in Mr. Weasley not dissimilar to how Narcissa had regarded Minister Fudge.  
  
"Good lord, Arthur," he said softly. "What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn't have fetched this much?”  
  
Fudge, who wasn't listening, said, "Lucius is here as my guest, though you undoubtedly heard about his considerable donation to St. Mungo’s recently."  
  
"How nice," said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.  
  
Draco shot Harry and Ron a contemptuous look which they returned with equal vitriol.

“No boyfriend? What, the two of you have a domestic?” Weasley challenged. Draco narrowed his eyes, confused.

“What are you talking about?”

Then the malice drained from Potter’s expression. He said something about “Zabini” and “boyfriend” that Draco only partially listened to, but he pieced it together between the seconds he spent determining the most painful way to kill Ron Weasley.

_Why does everyone think Blaise is my boyfriend? “I don’t understand why you have to be so quick to deny it,” he said. I deny it because it is not true. I deny it because Malfoy men are not allowed to feel that way._

Potter grabbed Draco’s sleeve and hauled him over to the end of the second row near the Weasley girl. Draco shoved him back.

“Do not touch me, Potter!”

“Then don’t look at Ron like you’re about to murder him!” Harry retorted.

“Was I so obvious?” Draco asked facetiously. Potter bit down on his tongue to keep from saying something. His body tensed then released as he consciously attempted to remain calm.

“I forgive you for what you did second year to me, alright? I get it, your Reaper is important—”

“Want to say that a little louder, Potter? I don’t think the Minister heard you!” Draco shushed.

“Look, all I’m saying is I think you are a great big prat, and Zabini isn’t much better, but … Look at me and Ron. We are best friends. He has been with me through everything, and my bet is Zabini has been with you through all your shit, too.”  _He’s not wrong._ “But look at us! Do you think the two of you act anything like us?”

“No,” Draco shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. “Not at all.”

“Perhaps you ought to think about why that is,” Potter insisted, “because I thought you knew what it looked like but you don’t.”

Draco didn’t want to think about “why that is,” not at all. He shoved Potter back by the shoulders and said, “Perhaps you ought to get back to your seat before I throw you out of the box alongside that blood traitor friend of yours.”

Potter just nodded sympathetically before he walked down the box to his seat, which was somehow worse than if he’d just punched Draco. He didn’t want anyone’s pity, he only wanted to continue to live in ignorance. (Even if the world seemed hell-bent on preventing it.) Thankfully the girl Weasley was the shortest of the bunch and he could see overtop her. Mother sat to his direct right, Father to hers, and Draco could not believe the view.

“Amazing,” he breathed.

“I never understood the fascination with Quidditch,” Hermione said. She’d conjured a chair from Merlin only knew where and squished herself into the space at Draco’s left. “Ginny,” she nodded toward the girl in front, “is obsessed. Never shuts up about it.”

“If you do not like Quidditch, it is simply because you do not know how to watch it,” Draco replied.  
  
Just then, the emcee charged into the box, whipped out his wand, and directed it at his own throat before saying, "Sonorus!" He spoke over the roar of sound that filled the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen...welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!"  
  
The spectators screamed and clapped, and Draco joined them enthusiastically. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans - A Risk With Every Mouthful!) to show BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0. Bagman then introduced the mascots and the players for each team.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome - the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you - Dimitrov!"  
  
A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.  
  
"Ivanova!"  
  
A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out.  
  
"Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand - Krum!"  
  
Draco clapped his hands together so rapidly his mother laughed at his enthusiasm. Viktor Krum was thin but broad-shouldered, and very sallow-skinned. He had a masculine appearance for an eighteen-year-old, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like he could take just as good as he could give in a fight and Draco admired that. He also did not miss the way Hermione’s aura went entirely pink at Krum’s appearance.  
  
"And now, please greet - the Irish National Quidditch Team!" yelled Bagman. "Presenting - Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand - Lynch!"  
  
"And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!"  
  
A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with an impressive mustache, strode onto the field. A silver whistle protruded from beneath the mustache, and he carried a large wooden crate under one arm with his broomstick under the other. Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open - four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and the minuscule, winged Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.  
  
"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!" screamed Bagman. "And it's Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!"  
  
The speed of the players was incredible. Draco saw the Irish team play England once and there really wasn’t much competition. They tossed the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. The three Irish Chasers zoomed closely together in an arrowhead-type formation.

“You see how Troy is in the centre, slightly ahead of Mullet and Moran?” Draco asked Hermione. “That’s a Hawkshead Attack. He’s going—oh, nice!” Draco shouted to Hermione as Troy darted upward with the Quaffle. “See, he is drawing away the Bulgarian Chaser and they are going for a feinting ploy here,” Draco explained as Troy dropped the Quaffle into Moran’s outstretched arm.

One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, knocking it into Moran's path; Moran ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath, caught it, tossed it back up to Troy and-- "TROY SCORES!" roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. "Ten zero to Ireland!"  
  
Draco had a fondness for Troy. The couple of times he passed by close enough to see, there was a very determined set to his jaw and he was lithe on his broom. His fingers held delicately onto the handle of his Firebolt, not at all like most Chasers who hung on with a death grip. All three worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated they appeared to read one another's minds as they positioned themselves. Within ten minutes, the match somehow got even faster, but also more brutal.

Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, whacked the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, preventing them from using some of their best maneuvers. Finally, Ivanova managed to break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria's first goal.  
  
Ireland lost possession of the Quaffle, and Bagman began narrating the Bulgarian transfers.  
  
"Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov!”

But Draco’s eyes had drifted to Viktor Krum, as they were wont to do.  _(Because he’s talented, of course.)_  The Irish Seeker, Lynch, had spotted Krum.

“Oh, what a glorious bastard of a move this is,” Draco said excitedly and he smacked Hermione’s arm as Bagman roared,

“Ivanova - oh I say!"  
  
Everyone gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the center of the Chasers.  
  
"They're going to crash!" Narcissa gasped.

“No, Mother, Krum is feinting. He waited until he was sure Lynch had seen him diving before actually going for it.” Draco was right. At the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud heard throughout the stadium. A massive groan arose from the Irish seats.

"It's time-out!" yelled Bagman's voice, "as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!"

“It is the Wronski Defensive Feint,” Draco said to Granger. She nodded in response. “Krum pulled it off perfectly, ugh, I wish I could fly like that,” he said. “Brilliant, honestly. Even as they patch up Lynch, he is still looking for the Snitch.”

“Viktor never explained Quidditch like that,” Hermione said.

“Viktor?” Draco asked aloud. “Did you just call him Viktor?”

Her aura went red at that observation.

“We dated a bit,” she finally said. Draco’s mouth fell open.

“You dated Viktor Krum?!” he shouted. Fortunately, only his mother heard him over the crowd. “You have been at my shoulder for fourteen bloody years and you just now tell me you dated Viktor Krum?”

“It was only a first love sort of thing, and he is really much more of a physical person. He wasn’t as romantic about Quidditch as you are.”

“How can you not be romantic about Quidditch?” Draco asked as Lynch finally got to his feet. He mounted his Firebolt and kicked back off into the air. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything Draco had ever seen. After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland led one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game only got dirtier.

“Ireland clearly has the scoring advantage,” Draco told Hermione, “but Bulgaria can hold their own because of their defense. Volkov and Vulchanov, their Beaters, have fantastic bat speed. They can generate power with that instead of brute force, which is better because of how fast the Bludgers are at this level.

“You see, there—” Draco grabbed Hermione’s hand (Dammit, that fluttering started again in his stomach.) and pointed it at the Chaser. “—how Vulchanov is hovering overtop Levski? He is fast enough to keep up with a Chaser and is acting as a shield against the Bludgers hurtled his way once he is in possession of the Quaffle.”

The Beaters on both sides acted without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in particular seemed not to care whether their clubs made contact with Bludger or human as they swung them violently through the air. Dimitrov shot straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom. The Quaffle continued to change hands with impressive speed.  
  
"Levski - Dimitrov - Moran - Troy - Mullet - Ivanova - Moran again - Moran - MORAN SCORES!"  
  
The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face.  
  
There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum's nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa didn't blow his whistle. He had become distracted because one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.  
  
"Time-out!” Draco shouted. “What the bloody hell is the ref thinking? Krum can't play like that, look at him!"  
  
"Look at Lynch!" Potter yelled. The Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive.

"He's seen the Snitch!" Draco shouted.

"He's seen it!” Potter agreed. “Look at him go!"

Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on, but Krum was on his tail. There were flecks of blood flying through the air behind Krum, but he drew level with Lynch as the pair hurtled toward the ground again.  
  
"They're going to crash!" shrieked the Weasley girl.  
  
"They're not!" Harry shouted.  
  
"Lynch is about to!" Draco yelled.  
  
And he was right - for the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela. Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, rose gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand.  
  
The scoreboard flashed: BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170.  
  
"IRELAND WINS!" Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match.  
  
"Merlin, I don't think any of us were expecting that!" Father said.  
  
"What did he catch the Snitch for?" Weasley bellowed, even as he jumped up and down, applauding with his hands over his head. "He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!"  
  
"He was very brave, wasn't he?" Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the battling leprechauns and veela to get to him. "He looks a terrible mess...."

“I cannot believe he did that,” Draco huffed. “He should have given his team a chance.”

“I think it was a valiant choice,” Hermione countered. “Sometimes, when an outcome is inevitable, the best thing is to do it on your own terms.”

**.oOo.**

Draco’s parents left him alone to wander around the campsite. He didn’t question it, assuming they were going to have a postgame dinner with someone important. (The Minister of Magic, maybe? Draco didn’t care.) It was nearly midnight when the noises in the campsite changed. The singing was replaced by screams and the thudding of feet as crowds of people began to run away from something.  
  
Most people ran into the woods, fleeing something moving across the field, something emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire. Roars of laughter and drunken yells drifted toward them; then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene.  
  
A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, marched slowly across the field. They wore hoods and face masks and Draco immediately recognized them as Death Eaters. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures contorted into grotesque shapes. The masked wizards on the ground acted as puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands and into the air. Two of the figures were very small.  _Too small. Those are children._  
  
The size of the group swelled as they advanced toward the centre of the campground. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd increased. Several tents caught fire and the screaming grew louder. The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent and it was clearly a family—a Muggle family. One of the marchers below flipped the mother upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd screeched with glee.  
  
The smallest Muggle child, no more than two, began to spin like a top sixty feet above the ground. His head flopped limply from side to side. He had no control over his own movements, almost as though he was unconscious. A small shred of mercy from an otherwise sadistic horde.

“Oh, Merlin, I’m gonna be sick,” Draco said. He gagged as acid rose up his throat. He pressed a fist to his mouth to help keep it back. The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium were extinguished. Dark figures blundered through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices reverberated in the cold night air.  
  
Someone tripped over something and Draco heard Harry Potter say, “Are you okay?” Then a blast like a bomb sounded from the campsite and all three flinched as a flash of green light momentarily lit the trees around them. They heard another bang from the other side of the trees that was even louder. When several people nearby screamed, Weasley venomously asked,

“S’pose your parents are out there in masks, huh, Malfoy?”

“Shut up, Weasley, I don’t know if they were invited,” Draco admitted more to himself than to Ron.

"Let's just keep moving, shall we?" Ron asked as he dragged Harry away.  
  
Seconds later there was a hissing noise as mist rose from what must have been a wand somewhere deep inside the trees. Draco knew exactly what it was; he had seen that emblem on his father’s arm. It was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. It shone in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation.  
  
Draco heard everyone he couldn’t already see as they all erupted in screams. It was chaos as the skull rose high enough to illuminate the entire wood. Draco jumped as someone placed a hand on his shoulder, but it was only Granger. He fell to his knees as he finally lost control of his trachea. Popcorn kernels stuck in his back teeth as acid burned his throat and the contents of his stomach coated the bottom of a tree trunk.

“What the hell are they doing?” Draco asked, wiping the corners of his mouth with his coat sleeve.

“That is their idea of fun,” Granger replied venomously. “Half the Muggle killings back when Voldemort was in power were done for fun. This is their reunion.”

“But why?” Draco asked. “Why now? Unless …"

_This is the message._

"This is my fault. This is what Father was warning me about." He paused, grabbing at his own hair in frustration. He kicked at the tree trunk and shouted, "Muggles are people, Hermione! They are people, not some bloody garden gnomes!” Draco pointed in the direction of the bright green skull. “That is their way of warning me off Hannah. This is the kind of fucked-up shit they do for fun? These are my people?”

“These are your parents’ people,” Hermione countered.

“That is Voldemort’s mark,” Draco said. He sniffed then spat, the taste of vomit coating his mouth. “You want to know something?”

“Tell me.”

“I will not let a dead man choose my friends.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I told a couple of you the Blaise resolution would come in chapter 14, but it's been pushed back to chapter 15. (Two chapters from now.) Comments and criticism are always appreciated. Thank you again for all your support and kind words on prior chapters.


	15. XIV: Death, Dating, and Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I refuse to see what I don't want to see, none of it is real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco is remarkably self-aware in some cases and completely ignorant in others. It was my birthday yesterday and it was not a great day, and it kind of bled over into this chapter. I have a shitty day and take it out on Draco. (Or mostly Blaise.)

Mother and Father would not tell him anything. The days before his return to Hogwarts were spent surrounded by closed-door meetings and hushed, indiscernible conversations over dinner. Draco presumed, correctly, that his parents were not invited to the Death Eater reunion and that was their cause for concern. It was not against the rules to not invite the Malfoys, but it was certainly in bad taste. Only the Carrows would have the gall to do it.

Draco did not mind being shut out. He occupied himself with flying, mostly, unless it stormed. Then he buried his nose in a textbook until he fell asleep. There was more to learn since he continued on with Charms, Defense against the Dark Arts, etc., while also taking Arithmancy. Hermione practically offered to do his homework for him because, “It’s my favourite subject!”

He was not avoiding Hermione so much as he avoided any responsibility at all. As much as she could be a friend, she still represented a world that expected greatness from him. To be blunt, Draco needed a fucking break and he welcomed the opportunity to go back to Hogwarts. He packed his trunk days in advance, had read through nearly all his textbooks, and had nothing to do but watch the house-elves de-gnome the garden.

“Hey,” Hermione said, her hand lingering on his shoulder. Draco shrugged her off, not in the mood to talk. When he did not respond she huffed,

“This isn’t easy for me either, you know.”

“No, I do not know,” Draco said, kicking at the dirt. He crossed his arms and looked away.

“Do you think I like watching you like this? That I like watching you bounce back and forth from being the prince your family wants you to be and the young man everyone else needs you to be? All you can do is what you believe is right, and if there is one thing I can promise you, Draco, it only gets harder from here.”

“Harder? Harder than my family ostracizing me over the threat of rebellion?”

“Yes,” Hermione deadpanned. She stepped in front of Draco and forced him to look at her.

“If there is one thing I learned from Harry’s experience in the war, you will need someone you trust to keep you on the right path, okay? When decisions get difficult you need someone to tell you when you’re wrong. There needs to be someone you trust to hold you while you break down and wake up the next morning knowing they still see you as a warrior. Whether it is me or Blaise or someone else, you need that person to help you through what’s coming.”

“Do I want to know what is coming?” Draco asked quietly. Hermione shook her head.

“No,” she whispered back.

They stood in silence for awhile, watching the house-elves throw gnomes over the hedges. Draco knew what was coming. Voldemort would be back and his family wouldn’t be on top anymore. He would be second and that bothered him more than anything. More than being wrong, Draco simply did not want to serve a master. He was groomed to be a leader and leaders serve their people, not other leaders. Certainly not Voldemort.

Blaise said never to ask questions if he didn’t want to hear the answer, but something had floated around his mind for awhile. At first he didn’t ask because he believed Hermione wouldn’t answer. Then he didn’t ask because he knew the answer. But he did not know with certainty, and perhaps it was time to stop clinging to doubt.

“Have you ever wondered why you were put here at seventeen, and not, say, twenty-two or fifty-seven?” Hermione tried to keep her face straight, but a knowing glint in her eyes gave her away. She had always wondered.

She tried to deflect by saying, “I am eighteen,” but it was as good as a confirmation as any. Draco was fairly certain her conclusion was the same.

“You knew me there,” Draco surmised, “so would it not make sense if they sent you here knowing only enough to guide me where I need to go?”

Hermione swallowed hard and looked away.

“Yes.”

“Which means you would only remember everything from that world up until I die in this one?”

She did not respond but tears welled in her eyes. Hermione turned entirely away from Draco before they could spill over. When she finally answered, her tone was despondent.

“Don’t make me answer that, please.”

“Why? Does the universe not want me to put all of the pieces together?”

“I don’t!” Hermione turned and shouted so loudly that Draco took a step backward. “I don’t want you to know because you deserve more! You should get the chance to become a better person. I don’t want to think about you dying as a child. I don’t want to think about you saving the world at the expense of your better life. Why would the universe put me here to guide you through a life it knew would end early?”

“Without you, it wouldn’t,” Draco replied.

Hermione shook her head. Tears rolled down her face because she could no longer hold them back. Her voice wavered as she insisted,

“I’ll go. I’ll go away; I’ll hide in corners and you’ll never see me. Draco, let me leave and you can live!”

He held up a hand to silence her.

“I do not remember a lot from when I was little. I learned how to dance, I learned my responsibilities as a Malfoy, but I will never forget the way you used to look at me. You hated me so much you did not speak to me for years. I can only wonder what I did to deserve that. All I know is I never, ever want to go back to a time where you want to hide from me.

“Am I a better person than I was in your world?”

Hermione nodded.

“Would you want me to end up like him?”

“No.”

“Then why would you leave?”

“Because I love you too much to stand back and watch you die!”

The words were out of her mouth before she could think them through. Draco’s mouth opened a little, like he wanted to say something but could not find the words.

They were nearly nose-to-nose then, and he could have kissed her. Hermione wouldn’t have minded, he just needed to take the chance. He could see it even: his hand finding the back of her neck through all that bushy hair and pulling her close. Maybe her tears would stop as they kissed and they would laugh when Draco’s fingers were caught in her hair.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Maybe later, maybe when he understood more. They’d never talked about his death like this, and now he understood why.

Hermione wiped the tears away and steadied herself. Draco couldn’t think of a single thing to say. His own choices would kill him. It seemed so far away before, but with the Triwizard Tournament approaching (Minister Fudge divulged that bit of information after a bit too much post-dinner Firewhiskey.) it was all very real. Hermione was forcing Draco to confront his own mortality, but between rebellion and Father, Death would have to wait.

They just stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder, listening to the garden gnomes thud on the other side of the hedge.

**.oOo.**

Draco was one of the earliest students on the Hogwarts Express. He hugged his Father good-bye, knowing he would not see him for ten months. He clung to his mother on the platform. Draco said he would miss her and apologized for things he was not truly sorry about. She ran her fingers through his hair, which they forgot to cut over the summer. It was still slicked back, but it coasted along the tops of his shoulders. Draco didn’t like it—he looked too much like his father.

He took a spot near the front of the train because the prior year the back of the train hadn’t treated him well. He stowed his trunk and pressed his forehead to the window. Hermione was nowhere to be see, probably hunting around for Potter. Someone Draco didn’t recognize sat down in the seat across from him.

“That is not your sea—” Draco’s eyes widened. “What the hell?!”

Draco pressed his back to the window, as far away from Blaise as he could get. Pansy stood in the doorway, smirking at Draco’s reaction. Blaise himself just looked offended.

Blaise’s curls had been shaved completely off, leaving only a hint of jet-black hair visible.

“This is my seat, Malfoy,” he quipped. Draco remained a little slack-jawed.

“I think he looks good,” Pansy said, dropping herself in the space next to Draco.

“I never said he didn’t,” Draco insisted. “I just … was surprised is all.”

Draco’s face was flushed. Without the curls Blaise looked, Draco swallowed hard,  _really good_. It forced him to notice Blaise’s face in sharp relief. His thick eyebrows were nearly straight lines, tilted only the slightest bit inward, and they stood in contrast to the roundness in some of his other features. His eyes were thin, hooded ovals somehow rounder on the bottom than the top. His lips were puffy with a cupid’s bow and just below Blaise’s bottom lip there was a dimple Draco had never noticed. Draco realized he must be staring but he didn’t care.

“Could you stop looking at me like that?” Blaise asked quietly. He dipped his head and said, “I know you don’t like it but—”

“Good!” Draco nervously cleared his throat. “You…you look good, Blaise.”

“You think?” His mouth twitched upward in a hopeful smile. Draco nodded enthusiastically.

“You look gorg—good.” Draco let his face fall into his hands. He almost said too much. Blaise kicked one of Draco’s legs aside and said,

“Don’t do that. Say what you mean. You were looking at me like you’d never seen me before and I didn’t realize it was that different.”

_I can’t say what I mean because I can’t tell myself what I mean. All I know is that seeing you now makes my heart beat a little too fast and my stomach does that fluttering thing again and Merlin’s beard your eyes are so fucking gorgeous I want you to look at me forever. Is that weird?_

“Gorgeous. That is what I was going to say. You look more like your mother,” Draco said.

“And you look like your father,” Pansy teased. “If your hair gets any longer you’ll have a ponytail of your own.”

“Ugh,” Draco groaned. He playfully lowered his voice and said, “You dare speak to me like that in my own house?!”

Blaise and Pansy laughed.

“Spot-on, Draco,” Pansy said. “Spot-on.”

**.oOo.**

Part of Draco was disappointed he could not enter the Triwizard Tournament. If he won, not even the Carrows could say he was too weak to lead. “Draco Malfoy, Pureblood Prince and Triwizard Champion” had a nice ring to it. However, he knew the death toll and the kinds of tasks they previously designed for the competition, and Draco hadn’t come all this way only to die pointlessly in a hail of dragon fire.

He had met Igor Karkaroff several times and Karkaroff reintroduced himself in the worst possible manner. As in, walking his students to the Slytherin table and shouting,

“Master Draco! I spotted you immediately, you look just like your father with all that hair.” Blaise laughed and tried to disguise it as a cough.

The adjective Father used to describe Karkaroff was “slippery.” But so was everyone with the tattoo Draco had seen on Karkaroff’s left arm. At least, all of them who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban. Father had been hell-bent on Draco attending Durmstrang and courted Karkaroff’s approval for years before Narcissa compromised on Hogwarts. Draco never liked Karkaroff because there was always something sketchy there, and he had an undercurrent of fear to him as well.

Karkaroff placed Viktor Krum between Draco and Blaise before heading to a place at the staff table. Krum alternated from staring at the gold cutlery to staring at the enchanted ceiling. (If he’s impressed by this, Draco knew it was best he didn’t end up at Durmstrang after all.) Draco felt Hermione’s hand on his shoulder. She said,

“Ask him about food. He likes to talk about food.”

Draco pulled her close and quietly mumbled, “I am not flirting with Viktor Krum for you.”

“Not for me!” Hermione said. She sighed, “He needs a friend. Harry and Ron start drooling any time he gets close enough so they can shove a quill in his direction. I’m not here now, so maybe it can be you.”

Well, it would certainly make Harry Potter jealous, and that’s as good a reason as any.

“How is the food at Durmstrang?” Draco asked aloud.

“Shitty,” at least six heavily-accented voices said simultaneously. Viktor Krum nodded, pursed his lips, then agreed.

“Yes, shitty.”

Draco found this very amusing.

“Father wanted me to go to Durmstrang, but—“

“Hah, you could neh-ver make it at Durmstrang. You are too blond and thin.”

Looking around at the Durmstrang students, Draco found that to be a fair assessment. He wasn’t a beanpole like Weasley, but he was thin and lithe. Though Draco would eventually be fairly tall, he was practically attached to Blaise who was half-a-head taller.

“That is true,” Draco replied. “You lot look like you could eat Crabbe and Goyle for breakfast.”

The table laughed and Krum offered his hand to Draco.

“Viktor Krum.”

“Draco Malfoy.”

As they clasped hands, a satisfied smile spread across Draco’s face. He saw Ron Weasley go red with envy in his peripheral vision. At the end of the feast, Headmaster Dumbledore stood and smiled.

“The moment has come. The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words before we bring in the casket—“

_Casket? Casket!_

It was actually a great old wooden chest covered in jewels.

“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman, and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways … their magical prowess—their daring—their powers of deduction—and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.”

The Great Hall was so silent it was as though every student was holding their breath.

“As you know, three champions compete in the tournament, one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.”

Dumbledore took out his want and tapped the casket three times. The lid creaked open in a tantalizingly slow manner. Dumbledore reached inside and removed a fairly unremarkable wooden chalice. Unremarkable except for the dancing blue-white flames that sprung from its depth. He closed the casket and set the goblet on top.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as a champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet. Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools.”

More rambling about commitment and an age line of some sort that Draco did not pay attention to. He got more than Krum, though, who seemed to struggle through various words. Draco found himself explaining “deduction” and “obliged,” though Krum got a determined look any time Dumbledore said “champion.” Oh, yes, he knew that one.

Once they were dismissed, Professor Karkaroff made his way back to Krum. He offered Viktor wine and inquired about his health, seeming to forget the seventeen or so remaining students.

“Professor, I vood like some vine,” one of the other Durmstrang boys said hopefully. Karkaroff’s paternal air vanished instantly.

“I wasn’t offering it to you, Poliakoff,” Karkaroff snapped at a boy who looked like a cross between Goyle and Longbottom. “I notice you have dribbled food all down the front of your robes again, disgusting boy—“

Draco stood abruptly and cut Karkaroff off.

“Yes, Professor, I can see exactly why you and my father would be great friends.” Karkaroff’s confused expression turned to anger once he realized it was meant as an insult.

“At any rate, the Durmstrang students are welcome in the Slytherin common room any time. Including, what is it? Poliakoff?”

The boy nodded and Karkaroff was again about to say something but was distracted by Harry Potter. Potter could, of course, detract attention from a dementor riding a dragon into the Black Lake just by walking by. Draco rolled his eyes and walked away.

Hermione stood nearby and held up a hand as he walked past. He returned the high-five subtly and felt that, yes, he had done the right thing.

When the champions were chosen the following evening, the goblet’s flames turned red and sparks flew from within. Then a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it—the whole hall gasped.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length so he could read it by the light of the flames, which had returned to their original blue-white.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”

Applause and cheers came from every table. Viktor stepped out of the table bench and patted Draco on the back before slouching his way up toward Dumbledore like this was the least impressive thing he’d ever done. He turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him over the applause. “Knew you had it in you!”

Fleur Delacour and Cedric Diggory were chosen next, and Draco was rather relieved it wasn’t riding on anyone in Slytherin House. It would be odd to have the focus off himself and he did rather enjoy Viktor Krum. Viktor didn’t say much, but Draco understood much better now what Hermione meant when she said he was a “physical person.”

The fire in the goblet turned red again and the entire hall turned to stare. There were only three champions, but another long flame shot suddenly into the air bearing another piece of parchment. Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore.

“Harry Potter.”

Every head in the Great Hall swiveled to look at Potter, and Draco realized in one terrifying instant that this was what Hermione had meant when she said, “It only gets harder from here.”  _And it all starts now._   _Harry Potter’s name being put in the goblet? Father’s mark starting to burn again? The foreboding and fear in Karkaroff’s frown lines … This is it; this has something to do with the Dark Lord’s return. Whatever this leads to, Voldemort is at the end of it._

 

**.oOo.**

Viktor adopted Draco as something of a cross between a pet and a little brother. Draco didn’t mind this, even got some helpful Quidditch insight. (Apparently the French national team lost after one of their Beaters “accidentally” directed a Bludger at a Chaser after a nasty breakup.) When Draco asked about the World Cup, Viktor was surprisingly okay with it. He had a different philosophy about Seeking, not really seeing it as much of a team-player sort of position. His only job was “to catch the Snitch, regardless ohv where my team is. I catch it fast and we win. I am too slow, we lose.” Krum then explained why he liked to separate the field into halves:

“Halv ohv the pitch is mine. If the Snitch travels ohn my side, I vill find it. Ozer Seeker can search all oh-vher, waste time, and if he catch it ohn the other side, zhen he vins. He can beat me zair, but he vill not beat me on my half. He vill not beat me here.”

Hermione liked watching Viktor among students. She said most of her time was spent in the library, and that’s where Viktor had spent most of his time watching her. Which, admittedly, was annoying.

Draco, Pansy, and Blaise sat around a table working on an essay for Charms when Viktor sat down at the table next to them an asked “vot they vurr verking ohn.” Blaise sighed deeply. Draco had the distinct feeling that Blaise didn’t like Viktor, or most of the Durmstrang students for that matter. Which was weird—Blaise liked everyone. At least, he was outwardly decent to everyone. Draco knew something about Viktor irritated Blaise, what it was remained a mystery.

“I never see Crabbe and Goyle doing homework,” Draco complained. “How is it they pass? Do they beat up the smaller Gryffindors until they do it for them? Look,” Draco pointed to where Crabbe sat with one of the Durmstrang boys, “he is too busy flirting with Poliakoff to notice Goyle stealing his chocolate frogs.”

Krum’s bushy eyebrows shot upward.

“Flirting?”

“Talking to someone because you  _like_  them,” Pansy sighed. “Or because you think they are cute.”

“And zat is allowed? Ex—ex,” Viktor waved his hands around as he searched for the word. “Accepted?”

“How do you mean?” Draco asked, oblivious.

“Zat vuhn, Crabbe? He is a boy. Poliakoff is a boy. Zat is accepted?”

_Not by everyone. Not by my father, and that is who matters._

“No,” Draco replied.

_Snap!_

Blaise’s quill broke in two and he smudged the last couple lines of writing. He leapt up from the table and muttered, “I have to go,” as he made for the common room door. His bag remained on the floor, his essay still laid out to dry on the table, and his ink bottle was left uncapped. Pansy stood as well and whacked Draco over the back of the head with a textbook.

Draco knew he shouldn’t have said anything. He should have let it go, but just the same as every time someone referred to Blaise as his boyfriend, he could not let it stand.  _What if my father heard about that? “I do not know if the Zabini child would be better or worse,” Father said. Having a boyfriend is like having a half-blood girlfriend. It is not how things are done, and we are all about tradition._

“Well aren’t you supposed to be changing things?” Hermione asked, appearing from out of nowhere as though she’d heard those thoughts spoken aloud.

“I do not want to change things!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Pansy said as Draco realized he answered aloud. Viktor looked confused, unable to pick up the conversation. Draco continued to scribble some words onto his parchment…words he hoped formed themselves into sentences.

_Hermione said something, too. Something ridiculous a long time ago that I never really understood. “The choices you make will change the world. It’s not just the one that kills you.” As far as tradition goes, Father himself said, “I do not want this life for you.” Which is it? What is right and what is wrong? What am I allowed to want?_

Viktor didn’t ask about it and Draco was grateful. It seemed like life was forcing him to confront everything he did not want to deal with: death, dating, and destiny. Viktor was new, different, and something other than what Draco knew life would throw at him. While he kept up with things like his schoolwork and spending time with Housemates, it was more like Draco was numbly going through the motions.

_If I do not see what I do not want to see, none of it is real._

He did not want to do much of anything. He placed a few Galleons on Viktor making it through the first task and recouped his money. Draco did not watch the competition, though. The voices in the stands rose into storm clouds of sound that rained down in sheets. The noise made his whole body throb and Draco wanted nothing more than to be back in his bed with the four-poster drapes closed to block out the light. Swept in alongside those voices were the memories of Hermione’s front against his chest and how Blaise’s top lip dips in the middle.

_Walls up. These are nothing but malevolent ghosts in my head, ghosts of other selves I cannot allow myself to become._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the one I have been waiting for, been dying to show you, and I haven't been this excited since Hermione got petrified. (Is that weird? That sounds weird to me.) All the #feels, my dudes. Also, if you need me to warn you about anything in the notes, let me know. I am not all up-to-date with TWs but am more than happy to add warnings to the beginning notes if they may negatively affect you. This is a fairly depressing story, after all.


	16. XV: "I Never Asked for This"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yule Ball, the Second Task, and Sadness™.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Title: "LittleSixx rips out their still-beating heart and puts it through a paper shredder"
> 
> (Actually, that would be less painful than writing this chapter. I just ... I'm so tired. I hope this is good but it's long.)

That sort of existence was cold and lonely, but still easier than letting anyone else in. Krum was different; Draco pretended to listen as he droned on about how Durmstrang’s castle only had four floors but a gigantic forest for hunting, etc. Pointless things, and it occurred to Draco that no one ever allowed Viktor to just talk. Not without asking for an autograph or openly gawking at him like a caged…What’s Loony always going on about? Wrackspurts? Like a caged Wrackspurt.

Allowing Krum to do all the talking meant Draco could look like he was socializing without actually thinking about anything. Schoolwork and Krum were the same: boring and safe. But it only took one sentence in the middle of December to knock Draco right back into reality:

“Draco, vill you go to zee ball wiz me?”

He came to, then, in the Great Hall with no recollection of how he got there. It must have been dinner time because there was food on his plate and cutlery in his hands. Hermione shook him a bit and said something about “don’t be rude” and “those Beauxbatons nightmares.”

Draco turned to see a fairly pretty Beauxbatons girl, with straight black hair that flowed down her back. She had a long, round, thin nose and brown eyes, and Draco started to realize he had a fondness for brown eyes but he shook the thought away as speech finally returned to him.

“I...Sorry, what?”

The girl rolled her eyes and repeated, “Vill you go to zee ball wiv me?” She had brought the Fleur girl with her and several of the male students’ eyes glazed over. Even Pansy seemed a little star-struck.

“Sorry, I—I’ve already got a date,” Draco stumbled all over that one.

“Okay,” she shrugged halfheartedly and walked away. Unfortunately, everyone turned their attention to Draco.

“Who are you going with?” Theo asked. “You never told me you had a date.”

“Pansy, obviously,” Draco said.

Everyone went oddly silent. Amrish Gupta nudged Pansy, who said,

“I have a date, Draco.” At his blank expression she shrugged and said, “Blaise asked first.”

There was a smug look on Blaise’s face. Draco said,

“I assumed—”

“Yeah, you should stop doing that,” Pansy quipped. “Stop assuming Blaise and I are going to be there for you, or that any of us are, for that matter. We only serve if you lead, not when you walk around like some arsehole Inferius who doesn’t give a shit about how his actions affect everyone else.”

Blaise gave her a high-five but the rest of the table just squirmed awkwardly where they sat.

“Pans, I just—”

“I don’t care!” Pansy shouted from across the table. “We’ve been down this road so many times and we keep ending up back here. You can’t keep disappearing on us. Even when you’re here, you’re not really here. Nobody else is willing to say it, but we aren’t sure what is wrong. Did we do something?”

“No,” Draco sighed.

“Then what is it?” Pansy asked. “Is it your R—”

Draco silenced her with a glare. Hermione’s hand found his shoulder as though it was pulled there by magnets. Pansy wilted a little but the rest of the table leaned toward them anxiously.

“You should have told us,” Pansy insisted.

“I’m sure he can find a date, right?” Blaise asked facetiously. “Oh, I know, why don’t you ask your beloved  _Veek-toor?”_  he said as he stabbed a fork into a potato with much more force than it required.

Draco could find a date. In fact, he knew just the person and prayed to God and Merlin above that she hadn’t already committed to someone else. He stood up from the table and sauntered over to Hannah Abbott. She turned around, saw Draco, looked at the table behind him, and groaned.

“Why does Blaise look like he’s about to murder me?”

“Probably because he just realized I am about to ask you to come to the ball with me.”

Hannah groaned again and stood up from her spot on the table bench.

“Why do you always do this in front of everyone? You know how to get to the common room.” She eyed the Slytherin table warily and her friends had squished themselves together in an effort to get as close to the conversation as possible.

“If I waited any longer, Finch-Fletchley would have asked you.” Draco turned his attention to the boy several places to his right and said, “That is right, Justin, patience is not a virtue.” He lowered his voice and said, “I promise I will leave early and you can get some quality time with him.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively and Hannah playfully punched his arm.

“Hannah Abbott, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?”

She pretended to think about it before smiling and saying, “Yes.” Draco smiled back, took her hand, and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles.

“Thank you,” he replied before haughtily returning to his place at the Slytherin table. He clearly hadn’t had a date after all, and he felt bad about burning the girl who already asked. He shouted at the Beauxbatons girls over his shoulder, “Vous êtes très belles.” He pointed to the girl who’d just asked him to the ball and said, “T’as d’beaux yeux, tu sais.” She flushed and blew him a kiss.

_Beauxbatons would have been a fine choice, indeed._

When Draco sat down, Blaise looked as though he was about to stab him with a fork and Pansy shrugged like she’d let him.

**.oOo.**

 

Blaise was huffy in the weeks leading up to the Yule Ball, but once Christmas Day arrived he could never stop showing off. And, oh, how Draco wished he would. Blaise’s mother had sent him robes of a deep emerald green for the festivities. As he lounged against his four-poster with the bottom buttons undone and his hands in his pockets looking like he should be on the cover of  _Teen Witch Weekly_ , Draco did not want to change in front of him. Which was odd because it never bothered him before. He didn’t mind Crabbe or Goyle or Theo, so why Blaise?

 

_You know why._

_What if he looks over?_

_What if he looks over and isn’t pleased?_

_Merlin, help me, I am so far gone._

“Looks as though I will have to apologize to Hannah,” Draco said.

“Why’s that?” Blaise asked halfheartedly.

“Pans clearly has the better-looking date.”

Blaise smiled wide at the compliment. Draco’s mutinous heart threatened to burst through his ribcage.

“Get dressed,” Blaise said. “Don’t worry, I won’t look.” And Draco wondered at which point his life had become so transparent.

His robes were a bit modern. He wore deep purple overcoat with black accents and a pattern of constellations woven into the fabric. Draco had (finally) gotten his hair cut back to a reasonable length, so he just ran his fingers through it with some Wizard’s Sculpting Gel and met his friends downstairs.

Pansy looked amazing in a high-necked silver dress embroidered with cherry blossoms. She was laughing with Gupta when Draco wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“You look lovely, Pans,” he said.

“Thanks!” she replied, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. “Grandmum ordered it and I just love it!”

Draco slipped out of the common room then to wait outside the Hufflepuff dormitory. Students slowly trickled out and Finch-Fletchley glared at Draco as he walked by.

Hannah stepped out and Draco couldn’t help but smile because she, too, looked beautiful. Her dress was a pale blue that perfectly complemented her eyes. Her hair was down in soft waves and the sleeves of her dress were actually just loose pieces of sheer fabric that connected at the wrist.

“You, Hannah Abbott, look radiant,” Draco said, offering his arm. Once she took it she replied,

“Fairly dashing yourself, Malfoy.”

There were bushes lined with fairy lights and the Great Hall was lined with the most intricate ice sculptures Draco had ever seen. One of the older Slytherins shouted at them to, “Have fun, blondies!” And his date chimed in, “Not too much!” The Weird Sisters set up onstage, the stage being a circular dais in the middle of the hall.

Watching the champions dance was humorous. Off his broomstick Viktor was hopeless, but he gave it a solid effort. Diggory and Cho Chang were awkward with each other but fair dancers. One of the Patil twins (Draco could never remember which one.) seemed to be leading a very out-of-his-element Potter instead of the other way around. They were all, of course, blown away by Fleur Delacour who danced as though the waltz was her idea of a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Once other couples flooded the dancefloor, Draco pulled a very nervous Hannah into the waltz. She was perfectly adequate at following his lead. After one song Blaise found him and yelled, “Switch!” So Draco spun himself into Pansy’s waiting arms and Blaise picked up where Draco had left Hannah.

“I’ll have you know I didn’t step on Blaise’s feet one time,” Pansy said as Draco spun her around the dancefloor. Hannah and Blaise were very close together as they kind of rocked from side-to-side. It appeared they were in a deep conversation, one that practically knitted Hannah’s eyebrows together. Once they returned to their original partners Draco asked,

“What were you talking about?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she said cryptically.

“I am worried about it,” Draco replied without thinking.

“Well,” Hannah was visibly irritated, “me and a couple hundred other people thought he would’ve done this years ago, but he’s scared. And he asked me not to say anything so don’t bother asking anything else, just spin me around again,” she demanded. As Draco raised his arm so Hannah could spin under it, he thought,

_If I could give him what he wanted, I would._

“Oi! Justin!” Draco shouted as they spun by. Draco pressed a kiss to Hannah’s cheek before saying, “She’s all yours!”

Draco tried in vain to escape the dancefloor, but another Beauxbatons girl caught him. All of them were so pretty; even the Beauxbatons boys were good-looking. However, she wasn’t the girl he was looking for at the moment. The Weird Sisters had begun to play some of their louder, more eclectic tunes, which Draco planned to use as his excuse for his abrupt exit. Life had started to move all too quickly again …

Until it stopped.

Hermione stood next to one of the bushes, looking in on the festivities from the entrance to the Great Hall. Only, she wasn’t wearing her cloak—well, she was. It was like the fabric had been molded into some kind of flowy gown, so her form was still fairly well-shrouded. It was clearly still the same floaty fabric she always wore, except it looked more inviting than ever. Gone was the glint of her aura; she appeared practically corporeal. Hermione wore a cape connected at her shoulders by black mesh that was interspersed with small crystals. They caught the light as she swayed to the song and it occurred to Draco she was literally watching her own life pass by, only without her in it.

“Hermione?” Draco asked.

She jumped a bit but smiled upon realizing it was him. She held out her arms and spun around for his appraisal. Draco’s mouth just hung open until speech caught up with him.

“You look stunning,” he admitted. “I just kind of…wow. Come here,” he demanded. She obliged and he pulled her into a close dance. They stepped side-to-side to the tune of faded music from the Great Hall. He snuck one arm into her cape to rest on Hermione’s lower back.

“I didn’t know I could change it,” she said. “Merlin, all these years I could have been wearing trousers!”

Her dress had no sleeves, and when Draco caught sight of her MUDBLOOD scar he said,

“One day you will tell me who did that to you.”

“There are lots of things I wish I could tell you,” she admitted. “Maybe you’ll believe me when I do, but I doubt it. There are so many things I wish I could tell everyone. I knew Ginny would be taken to the Chamber of Secrets, I know when Voldemort returns, and I know what happens to Harry. But I cannot tell anyone because if it changes too much then I don’t know anything and I can’t protect you.”

Draco stopped swaying and looked her in the eyes.

“You are saying I am the reason all this pain continues to happen.”

“I am saying there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to protect you. This is war, and my only purpose is to do right by you. You have come so far, you deserve that at the very least.”

Draco nodded and murmured his thanks, unable to think of something else to say. Standing there, holding Hermione to his chest with no room to breathe, life seemed to slow down a little. The world would take him eventually, but just then it seemed a bit further away than it did before.

**.oOo.**

Draco resolved not to “disappear” anymore, as Pansy called it, and deal with what life pushed his way. Except for Blaise, Draco still had no idea what to do about that. He knew what he wanted and why he couldn’t have it. Draco knew keeping him in such a tense stasis was cruel and unfair, but there was nothing else he could do. And he still wondered about what Hermione had told him, about how he needed a person to count on. Who could Draco trust to keep him on the right path, knowing it ends at his gravestone?

Viktor laughed at the “Potter Stinks!” badges. Draco admitted he made them and Viktor promised to keep that fact quiet. Draco customized one for him so it alternated between “Potter Stinks!” and “Krum Rules!” Once Viktor was spotted with it on his messenger bag, Draco had seventeen more orders and one on the side from Professor Karkaroff.

Most things with Blaise and Pansy were normal, but there were still tenuous little things. For years, Draco sat at the centre of the table in the Great Hall with Blaise at his right. One day in early January, Blaise took the spot across the table next to Pansy. It was fine the first time, it was weird the second time, and by the third day it was downright uncomfortable for everyone. There was an empty place at Draco’s side which no one wanted to fill. Even Krum kept to his spot at Draco’s left. Blaise returned eventually, but it made for a strained series of weeks.

Hermione anxiously pulled on some of her curls, distracted as they huddled in the back corner of the library working on Draco’s Arithmancy. Just when he was about finished she asked,

“What are the rules?”

Draco sighed and spun Nicholas Malfoy’s ring around his finger a couple times before he answered.

“You would have learned them as I did if you only bothered to care.” He silenced her response with a wave of his hand. “The second task is tomorrow and I need to get this done. I do not want to talk about—”

“The whole House is talking about it!” Hermione shouted. “Even the purebloods in Gryffindor are whispering about the rules. And I don’t…They all know something is coming and I don’t. I don’t like not knowing.”

“Tough,” Draco responded, capping his ink jar and lightly blowing on the last bit of wet parchment.

“What? Do you not want to share them with a Mudblood?”

“I stopped using that word.”

“But this is still part of your world that you keep hidden from me!” Hermione shouted, frustrated.

“You just—I don’t know, you just know them. They are not written down. We are a community and all the rules are meant for is to ensure everyone below is taken care of, and they do the same by supporting those of us on top. When Blaise has nowhere to go, it is on my family to find him a home. And when Mother asked for Blaise to host me last year, he was expected to say yes. He is about to break another important rule all because I am not brave enough to face my father, okay? So please, can we not talk about this?”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said. She sat in the chair beside him and placed a hand on his knee. Draco leaned into her side and rested his head on her shoulder. He sighed deeply and knew he would regret telling her, but she was right that he owed her an explanation.

“Relationships go from the top-down. No one can ask to date someone higher-up, do you understand?”

“Well can’t they just ask that person to ask them? If they say no then it wouldn’t matter.”

“We do not accept loopholes in our own guidelines! That counts just the same because they disrupt our very delicate balance. When Mother says ‘never bend,’ what do you think that means? Never lower yourself and never bend our rules.”

“Blaise has waited all these years…” Hermione trailed off.

_She knows, too._

 

“Mostly because I did not want to know, but it is like hiding from the sun,” Draco admitted. “Not admitting how I feel was pointless and tiring and only half a life. Everyone thought we were … you know.”  _No need to say it._  “Father used to think it was something to be ignored, to be laughed at. When he started to see that it was serious, I dunno … I did not want to disappoint him. I still don’t.”

“Ah,” Hermione realized. “If he asks and you say yes, your father will disapprove. And if you say no…”

“Father will demand he be excommunicated,” Draco sighed. “Father will force me to choose between damning the friend I already rejected and toppling over the society we’ve had for centuries. Blaise will be forced out of Hogwarts, abandoned by his mother, and alone. I cannot do that to him and I cannot disappoint my father, Hermione. That is why it has always been like this—it has to be like this!”

Draco stuffed everything in his bag and stormed out of the library, Granger close behind. He should not have told her. He felt so empty. Now someone  _knows_. It was not just tense whispers anymore. He should not have done that. He  _should not_  have done that.

He nearly ran right by professors Snape and Dumbledore.

“Malfoy!” Snape shouted.

Draco turned around and huffed, “What!”

Professor Snape gave him an intense look of disapproval.

“Keep walking!” Hermione had caught up. “Keep walking to the common room and lock yourself in your dormitory.”

“Why?”

“Because you need to!”

Draco turned his back. Just looking at her filled him with regret. He asked the professors what they needed and Snape responded,

“You need to come to my office so we can discuss a—uh—tutoring program. So you can tutor your less-gifted peers.”

“You know I would never do that,” Draco said skeptically. He began to think Hermione’s point had merit. “Run away” became an appealing option.

“For God’s sake—” Snape made to grab him but the moment Snape touched Draco he recoiled as though he had been burned.

“Merlin!” he exclaimed as Hermione’s hands had found Draco’s shoulders. (Both of them, which was new.)

“Ah, Miss Granger! It is nice to see you at last,” Dumbledore smiled.

“You can see her?” Draco asked in shock. He looked down at himself and noticed there was an angry red glow to his arms. He didn’t feel any different, but something was certainly off.

“I can, indeed!” Dumbledore joyously replied.

“I won’t let you take him. Not for this,” Hermione said.

“There are safety precautions—” Snape began, but Hermione cut him off.

“Take one more step toward him and I swear on Merlin’s grave I will set you on fire,” she said menacingly. Why they wanted Draco and why Hermione didn’t want him to go, it was scary not knowing. Snape assumed Hermione was bluffing and attempted once more to grab Draco’s arm.

“Professor?” Draco said.

“What?!” came the gruff reply.

“Your robe is on fire.”

Draco nodded to Snape’s smoking hemline. He dropped Draco’s arm and began stomping on his cloak.

Dumbledore said, “There is no danger for Master Malfoy.”

“I don’t believe you,” Hermione replied.

The red glow deepened and began to pulse outward.

“It is my belief that the truth is generally preferable to lies,” Dumbledore quipped.

“What if Viktor fails? Too much here is different for me to trust any of this.”

Professor Snape extinguished the small fire that had pooled at his feet. He opened his mouth to speak but was suddenly tossed down the nearest staircase as though swatted away by a giant, invisible hand.

“Is there anything you wish to tell me, Miss Granger?” Dumbledore asked, unconcerned about the semi-conscious professor lying at the bottom of the stairs. There was something in his words implying he was not talking about the task at hand.

“I don’t—no,” Hermione finally said.

“Good, then. I believe you know we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy. If there was something that needed to be changed, I should think you would tell me. I promised never to lie to you and I say he will get out alive. It has been determined that he is the one who must go.”

“Go where?” Draco asked, frightened and ready to run. He reached up with one hand to cover Hermione’s, but she did not answer.

In reply, Dumbledore walked closer to Draco and released a breath of air that looked like snowflakes shrouded in a blue mist. The flakes adhered to the semi-sheer glow emanating from his skin. Suddenly the glow felt very real and corporeal to him, and also very cold. Dumbledore poked Draco’s chest with his wand and cracks formed in what Draco realized must have been Hermione’s aura. All at once, it fell to the ground in tiny shards.

Before he could think too much about it, Dumbledore placed a hand on Draco’s head and the world went dark.

**.oOo.**

Draco was floating and it occurred to him the world was suddenly very wet. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. Instead of air, his lungs and nasal passageway filled with noxious liquid. He opened his eyes and paddled toward the light. Eventually he burst through the top of the Black Lake, sputtering and blinking water out of his eyes.

“AAAH! FUCKING SHIT!” Draco shouted. There was a giant shark to his left and Draco swam the other way as quickly as he could. Something grabbed him around the waist and Draco kept kicking until he realized it was Hermione.

“Stop, STOP! You are fine, Draco. You are okay.”

“I am okay,” Draco repeated. “I am okay. Where am I okay?”

“This was the second task and Krum had to rescue you,” Hermione shushed him. She hoisted him up so his chin rested on her shoulder and swam him back toward the shark. “I am taking you back to Viktor.”

Things came into focus awhile later. There were cheers coming from the stands as Viktor helped him up onto the lakeside platform. He asked,

“Ah-re you okay?”

That is when Draco began to shiver. His teeth clacked together and he furiously blinked water from his eyes. He was covered head-to-toe in lake water, his hair stuck to the back of his neck and fanned into his eyes. Everything was just so damn cold. Draco, not conscious of the entire school watching, kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks.

“T-towel,” he choked out and Viktor started shouting for a towel. Draco shrugged off his robe and peeled his sweater over his head, and if the Beauxbatons girls hadn’t started cheering he probably would have shucked his trousers too. Finally, someone wrapped a towel around his shoulders.

“Wh-who the f-f-fuck th-thought it-t-t was a g-good id-dea to stuff us into the midd-ddle of the lake in-n f-f-fucking F-F-February?!” Draco tried to shout, though it came out more like a croak.

_My father will hear about this!_

**.oOo.**

That evening, Theo stood at the side of Draco’s bed and bombarded him with questions he didn’t want to answer.

“Do you think Karkaroff will petition to have the scores changed? Krum did make it back first, after all. Such a shame they took Potter’s ‘bravery’ as worthy of first place. They made a whole fuss about safety precautions—”

_Sticking students at the bottom of a lake surrounded by angry Merpeople? Sure, safety precautions make everything alright. About as alright as detention in the Forbidden Forest, a giant snake hiding under the castle for a thousand bloody years, and allowing soul-sucking prison guards to roam the castle grounds._

“—and Krum had the most effective method. The scoring is subjective and obviously leaning Potter’s way. Terribly rigged.”

Draco sighed and said, “I am sure Viktor—”

“In the name of Merlin’s bollocks can we please stop talking about Viktor fucking Krum for one goddamn second?!” Blaise shouted from his bed. Theo shot him a skeptical look and Draco raised an eyebrow. Theo looked between the two of them and his expression asked, “Are you really doing this now?” Draco shook his head but Blaise slid off the side of his bed.

“Crabbe! Goyle!” Theo shouted. “I, uh, downstairs there’s uh…food? Of some sort?” When they didn’t respond Theo continued, “There is definitely chocolate down there somewhere.”

The three of them quickly headed down to the common room; Blaise slammed then locked the door behind them. He shook visibly and Draco knew that what Blaise was about to say would change things.  _Why does it have to be now? We could wait. Please, don’t make me do this now._  Blaise nodded to himself, second-guessing his decision.

“I used to tell you not to ask questions if you do not want the answer, but we are past that now because you are too fucking blind when it comes to me.”

Draco straightened his spine, narrowed his eyes, and lowered his voice.

“Do not insult me.”

“Do not try that alpha-male prince bullshit on me, not now!” Blaise countered. “You know you can compel me, Draco. I would lay my soul out for you to stomp on if you asked me to.”

“I would never—”

“Well I am doing it anyway because it hurts not knowing!” Blaise admitted. “I know how this ends, but I love you too much to allow you to look at me this way anymore.”

Draco’s subconscious want knocked on his mind’s door but he ignored it.

“You are family to me. I trust you and I want you by my side.”

“And I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Draco sighed and allowed the tension to leave his body. “It is settled. That was—”

Blaise closed the distance between them and pushed Draco as far backward as he could go. Draco was pinned to the wall, frozen and overwhelmed by a desire he refused to name. It banged on the door to his consciousness, threatening to beat it down. Draco still did not want to admit this part of himself existed.

_Malfoy men can’t feel this way, can they?_

Their faces were only inches apart and Draco’s heart beat so frantically he felt the vibrations in his throat. Blaise tilted his head toward Draco just the slightest bit so their noses touched, and he opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. Their lips were only centimetres apart and he felt Blaise’s breath hot on his cheek. Draco tentatively ran his thumb along Blaise’s jawline…

But he was not brave enough to make that final move. He couldn’t even admit he wanted to. Blaise glanced down at Draco’s lips to gauge the distance, like they had been building toward this moment for ten years. Blaise exhaled softly and grit his teeth. He couldn’t bring himself to do it either. He slammed a fist against the wall before pushing off.

“You don’t get to pretend you don’t know anymore.”

Draco was relieved and his heart settled into a gentle staccato. But when he no longer physically felt Blaise, he felt a sense of regret and shame that he was too frightened to go after what he wanted.

“It was so hard,” Draco choked out. “And I didn’t know what to do because I can’t say no.”

“You can!” Blaise insisted. “You can say no! I’ll take whatever hell comes with it because there is nothing worse than knowing part of you wants me! I can’t stand wondering whether it’s enough. I can’t listen to you talk about  _Viktor_ —”

“He’s just a friend!”

“But you go to him more than you come to me,” Blaise insisted. “And it’s because he is safe. I don’t like not being safe for you, and I am tired of whispering and wondering about what we are.”

“Me too,” Draco admitted. His chest rose and fell rapidly, uncontrollably, and though he knew air was going in and out of his lungs it still felt like breath evaded him.

Blaise stepped toward Draco before he could stop himself and tentatively pressed their lips together like he was asking for permission. Draco couldn’t move at first, too stunned. Blaise pulled back a bit but Draco finally came to and placed a hand on the back of his head to pull him closer.

Blaise tasted like pumpkin juice, and why wouldn’t he? Always the embodiment of autumn and comfort and  _home_. He nipped at Draco’s lower lip, put his hands on the sides of Draco’s head and threaded his fingers through that blond hair. Draco balled up the hem of Blaise’s sweater in his free hand to bring the lower half of Blaise closer, too. As he slid the slightest bit down the wall, Draco opened his mouth to breathe and Blaise took the opportunity to sloppily stick his tongue inside. It wasn’t pretty. It was slimy and distracting and Blaise was embarrassingly half-hard against Draco’s midsection.

Their kiss was fast because it had to be. There were no lingering touches or tentative moments because any time not spent acting would have allowed Draco to think. Everything with Blaise was comfortable, and though these touches were new they still felt pleasantly familiar. It was as though Blaise asked, “Is this okay?” each time their lips touched. Draco responded, “It is too good to be real, so just keep going,” in the same breath. All words unspoken.

When Blaise pulled back Draco whimpered at the loss of contact. It was a submissive sound and he was quickly filled with shame. Blaise took a step forward but refused to go any further.

“More,” Draco demanded, incapable of producing more than one syllable. Blaise shook his head.

“I just wanted to do it once, is all.”

“Do it again,” Draco insisted, but Blaise denied him. Draco placed his palms flat against the wall and pushed himself upright. His legs wobbled, and he took one tentative step toward Blaise before realizing his balance had not returned.

“I won’t stop,” Blaise said. He paused a moment before adding, “I love you so much.” Draco put a hand on his chest to recalibrate his lungs as air seemed to vanish again. “I love that you trust me more than anyone. You are loyal to a fault and I have never hidden how much I admire that. Everyone knew how I felt about you.”

“I knew,” Draco admitted. “I sort of always knew there was a reason you feel like home. I felt it because I love you, too.”

There was no joy in Blaise’s face at that admission. He fell back to the edge of his own bed and tears fell from those umber-flecked eyes.

“Why would you say that?” he asked. “Why would you do that to me?”

“Because it is true. Did you ever doubt it?”

“I doubted you would ever act on it,” Blaise admitted. He had done this anticipating he would say no.

“You value your name more than me,” Blaise continued, “but even this hurts less than you pretending you don’t know.”

“How do I know you are not in love with me because I am the easy option?” Draco challenged.

“Easy?” Blaise wiped his eyes and laughed. “Good God, Draco, nothing about you has ever been easy.”

“But if I cannot live up to my name, I am nothing.”

“That is why I can’t do this again. I would rather have you throw me out than go through life loving you, knowing you can’t love me back the way you want to. But I had to know what you felt like, just to know so that when...” he trailed off.

_So when you are exiled you will at least remember what it felt like._

Draco pushed himself off the wall and reclaimed his presence. He was in charge, after all. This is his decision, his weakness, and his desire. Draco stood between Blaise’s open legs, took Blaise’s face in his hands, and looked into those frightened brown eyes. Draco did not want Blaise to wonder any longer.

As he pressed his lips to Blaise’s mouth, hands immediately went to Draco’s hips and Blaise’s eyes quivered shut.

_Closer._

 

Every motion, Blaise opening his mouth and practically dragging Draco into his lap, was about getting closer. Draco’s hands gradually moved from Blaise’s cheeks to his shoulders and Blaise spread his hands across Draco’s backside because he needed to get  _closer_.

“I want you,” Draco’s voice shook, “but I cannot be with you.”

“And why not? Break with tradition, Draco. Just once, for me.” Blaise rested his head against Draco’s midsection and his hands tightened around Draco’s waist. After all these years, he’d finally done it. Blaise broke the rule, and Draco still wasn’t sure what to do.

“Do you need me to beg?”

Draco wanted to hear Blaise desperate for him. Something about the power that came with being on top of the hierarchy and being a Malfoy, he wanted to hear it. Blaise was the one person who believed Draco’s most important contribution was his existence, not his death. So Draco said,

“I love you and please don’t ever believe otherwise. If I did not have the weight of the universe on my shoulders, Blaise, I swear I would choose you.” Blaise choked on a sob and had to wipe snot away with his sleeve. “But I am meant for more. There are decisions I will have to make and they will be harder if I lose myself in you.”

Blaise dropped his hands and tried to steady his breathing.

“Just tell me what I can do to make you say yes,” he said.

Draco groaned in frustration.

“Do you not understand?! I cannot walk to my death knowing I will take your heart with me!”

“But I am not asking you to die for me! That’s what Hermione wants, isn’t it? That’s what the universe wants? And you will give yourself to them because—What?—because they are more important?”

Draco pressed a hand over top Blaise’s heart.

“Yes,” and Blaise crumpled like tissue paper. A light breeze might have torn him in two.

_It does not mean you are not important. It does not mean I do not want you the same way you want me. My death has always been the most important thing and that means you are second._

But Draco couldn’t say any of that aloud.

They kissed again, but harder this time. Their teeth clacked together and Draco winced. Blaise pulled on Draco’s sweater to bring him closer and someone’s tongue was bitten and there was absolutely no space between the two of them. Eventually Draco pushed back and said,

“I am scared, Blaise, and I don’t feel safe telling anyone else I am afraid. There is a war coming, and Hermione will not say it but I think it kills me.”

“I won’t let it,” Blaise insisted.

“You have to.” Draco held Blaise’s hand. “You told me that being a Malfoy is where I screwed up, but I think I can be a proper Malfoy and do this. I will face Father and tell him you will not be punished, not for this. Fuck the rules, Blaise. I am a Malfoy, I am on top, and fuck anyone who dares to question my decision. I need you by my side through all of this and I want you to be proud of me.”

Blaise twined their fingers together.

“How long?” he asked.

Draco’s only response was to stare at his shoes. Blaise nodded as though he had come to his own conclusion. He smiled sadly.

“I promised you would never have to face anything alone, and I meant it. If we go to war, I am on your side.”

Draco had kept some semblance of control until then, but Blaise repeated his promise with such conviction that Draco sobbed outright. He mumbled into Blaise’s shoulder, “I don’t want to let you go and I really don’t want to die. None of this is fair. I did not ask for this. I never asked for this!”

Draco wiped his tears away with the ends of his sweater sleeves. He got onto his knees and pulled Nicholas Malfoy’s ring off his finger. Draco took Blaise’s left hand and slid the dragon-shaped band onto his fourth finger.

“So you remember part of me is always yours,” Draco said.

He stared at it for a moment; the silver contrasting nicely against Blaise’s dark skin. Merlin willing, in another universe that was a different ring and a promise for a future together.

Blaise pulled his own silver ring off his finger and placed it where Draco’s had been.

“So you never forget I am yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-wrote the ending of this chapter literally seventeen times. The first draft was done two months ago at about 2 AM in iPhone notes. I mean, you'll finally get the Dramione that I promised you, we had to go through this to do it, but it's the worst. I'm the worst. If you hated it, that's fine, please be gentle in the comments.


	17. XVI: "What Death Looks Like"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Numbness. Reconciliation. Death. More death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always seem to publish these chapters at some ungodly hour of the morning. Draco sort of explains the decision he made in the last chapter. I still have a lot of misgivings about the ending of last chapter. I kind of ... It feels weird realizing I was writing two love stories instead of one. I totally understand if, at this point, you want to bail because it felt like Blaise was a focal point. That's not true from the next chapter onward and you'll get the Dramione story I promised you. In fact, I hope it packs even more of a punch considering all the love Draco gave up for her.

The dormitory suddenly felt very small, as though the walls had taken several steps inward and there was only half as much air as before. Draco wished there was something he could say or do to make this different. Merlin on high, he would do anything to stop feeling like he had just ripped Blaise’s soul down the middle. He was looking at Draco the way a subordinate looks at a superior, how a lieutenant looks to his general. It was the last thing Draco wanted, but if Hermione was right they were all about to become child soldiers in a war with no room for middle ground.

Draco bolted from the room because it was too much too fast. His feet carried him because the rest of his body wasn’t paying attention; it just screamed  _What have I done? What have I done?_ He tripped a bit on the stairs and had to grab the railing for support. Dozens of his Housemates had gathered in the common room, Theo must’ve blabbed, expecting a happier announcement. Once they caught sight of Draco’s puffy eyes and red cheeks, the excitement in their eyes gave way to furrowed brows and worried mumbling. Their pity was suffocating.

Pansy and Theo shared a worried glance before Theo hauled Draco out of the common room. He dragged Draco down the hallway, all the way to the Hufflepuff dorm near the kitchens. Draco was numb as Theo tapped on the barrel and forced him down the walkway.

“I need Hannah!” Theo shouted, still slightly obscured in the tunnel.

The few older Hufflepuffs that remained downstairs looked at him skeptically, wondering why a fourth-year Slytherin had barged into their dorm. Once Theo shoved Draco into the light, one of the girls immediately ran up the stairs. When Hannah bumbled down the steps, mid-yawn, Draco knew he must have looked a wreck because her reaction was,

“Wha—Oh, my God!”

She ran to Draco and held him at arm’s length, looking him up-and-down.

“What happened?” she asked Theo.

“I don’t know,” Theo said, “but I can guess.”

When Draco finally looked up at Hannah, she agreed. Theo nodded and retreated toward the tunnel. Draco’s legs finally gave out and he collapsed onto one of the black couches. Numbness was safe and he wasn’t ready to feel anything else just yet.

“I have so many questions,” Hannah said.

_I don’t have any answers._

“You don’t have to answer them,” she insisted. “Theo would have told me if he knew anything.”

He was exhausted. Draco was so tired there was no energy left for him to care about the open wounds that would eventually form ugly cicatrices across his heart.

“Could you just…stay?” Draco asked.

 “Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

They spent the night with Draco curled into a ball on one end of the couch, Hannah’s feet in his lap as she sprawled out. Draco awoke the following morning to the sounds of Hufflepuff students leaving for class. He asked Hannah if it would be alright if he stayed longer. She said yes and Draco shut his eyes, grateful for more reprieve.

When he opened his eyes again, Hermione sat in the yellow chair across from him. Draco groaned, pressed his face into the cushion, and murmured, “No!”

“You should be in class.”

Draco sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. All the students were gone.  _Of course they are, they’re in class._

“The Fat Friar told me you were here,” Hermione said. “Do you want me to ask what happened?”

Draco shook his head.

“Do you feel okay?”

He shook his head again.

“Are you scared?”

“Not yet,” Draco sighed. He was ready to talk. “Blaise loves me because I trust him with everything and no one else has ever been like that for him. Of course, having you here is the reason I don’t have enough time to be in love the way I want to.”

He laughed.

“The only reason he loves me is also the reason we cannot be together. Blaise is the type of person who you just know will be in your life forever. The way you speak about Potter, that’s … that’s Blaise to me. He is my family, too. He is the person I would spend the rest of my life with if I knew I’d live past eighteen. The universe can go and fuck itself, Hermione. I bet we are not together in your world, either.”

“I didn’t even know Blaise was gay,” Hermione practically whispered her admission. “You were so unimportant to us and Blaise was so quiet … but no. You weren’t. “

“And what about me?” Draco asked. “Tell me what I was like. No window dressing, Hermione.”

She exhaled heavily and let her head fall into her hands. Eventually she said,

“Weak. You were weak, and Crabbe and Goyle were your human shields. Any time you had a problem your father fixed it for you. You wanted everyone else to do things for you without having to return the favour. I don’t think you ever spoke to Hannah Abbott. You cannot understand how different you have become and I just …”

She paused to breathe.

“You were smart and you hated me because I beat you in every class. You called me ‘Mudblood’ and when you said ‘Granger’ you thought you were being nice. You hated me more than anyone, even more than Harry. You were jealous of his fame, but oh Merlin how you hated me. And I can’t say much because it isn’t the right time, but you were there at the worst moment of my life. I was scared, I was in pain, and I thought I was going to die. All you could do was watch.”

_That’s why you did not speak to me, tried to avoid me all those years. It was because of whatever I watched happen to you._

“I figured something like that,” Draco covered a yawn. “Which is why we are different here—because I am different. I am better and you told me as much, but I am not all you want me to be. I think Muggles are stupid and anything they can do, we can do it better.”

Hermione tried to say something but Draco talked over her.

“However, they are people. If Hannah’s father died it would hurt her the same way it would hurt me if my mother died. It is the same and I am scared to tell that to my parents. I am scared of what the rest of the hierarchy will do. I am scared of Voldemort’s return, but all of this is in the future. I have time.”

Hermione bit down on her bottom lip.

_Oh. Not that much, after all._

“My point is that Blaise loves me for who I am. You told me I will need someone to lean on when I have to make tough choices. You say it only gets harder. If I told Blaise I did not want to die he would say, ‘Then don’t.’” Draco sighed heavily. “I love him so much that if I allowed myself to be with him I would not make these decisions. Eventually I would become like the other me. I would become someone you hate.”

“I think you sell yourself short,” Hermione replied.

“I am fourteen, Hermione. I don’t even know if I get to graduate Hogwarts. But somewhere out there in the stars someone saw greatness in me. I have always wanted to live up to my name. Someone has entrusted me to become a certain type of man and do something so outrageously brave it outshines even Harry fucking Potter. I want to do that more than anything but—hey, no, let me get this out!” he shouted as Hermione worked to interrupt again.

She huffed petulantly but allowed him to continue.

“I don’t know how to say these things, okay? I don’t know how to say it right.”

Hermione looked a bit less angry, then.

“All I know is that I am fourteen and I am going to be scared. When I am scared there is only one person I trust to keep me on the right path, and it is you.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise and her mouth formed a giant “O.” She blinked and scrunched up her face like she was trying to solve a complex Arithmancy equation. She kind of burrowed into her sweater and chewed on the cuffs.

“When did you start to trust me so much?” she asked.

“I dunno,” Draco mumbled.

They sat in silence for awhile, the bright yellow of the Hufflepuff common room much too cheery to reflect Draco’s somber mood. It wasn’t suffocating, but it also wasn’t his place. He was tired and his heart ached, but having Hermione nearby seemed to steady the world just a little bit. She steepled her hands and narrowed her eyes at Draco.

“There is a phrase for this in the Muggle world, we call them ‘people who run into the fire.’”

“Never heard of it,” Draco shook his head.

“Of course, you wouldn’t,” Hermione smiled wistfully. “It’s human nature to run away from danger, you know? You want to get away, you want to get to safety. But there are some people who choose to ignore everything they were taught and everything their body tells them to do because there are people who need help. When a house catches fire, there are people who flee and then there are the crazies who run into the flames to make sure no one got left behind.”

“Don’t do that,” Draco insisted. “Do not make me into something I am not. If it was not for Hannah and for you, I would not have changed my mind about blood status. I may change again and that is why I need you to support me.”

She sighed heavily and leaned forward a bit.

“Know this, Draco, that I have never been more proud of you. I don’t want to break up whatever you have. I don’t want you to hold that against me.”

“Blaise would tell me to save myself, but you tell me to go where I am needed. That is why I chose you.”

**.oOo.**

Hermione grossly overestimated Draco’s bravery. He couldn’t face Blaise, not yet. He staked out a place on the common room couch and the Hufflepuffs just accepted his presence. Hannah brought him food from the Great Hall, homework from the classes they had together, and some empathy. She didn’t ask many questions, and the ones she did were simple.

“Are you okay?”

_I am better than I was._

“Do you want to talk about it?”

_Not really._

“Blaise hasn’t said anything.”

_What is there to say?_

Through it all, Hannah was endlessly optimistic and upbeat. She plopped next to Draco on the couch and asked,

“When did you know?”

“Sorry, what?” Draco asked, still a little off. The world was moving, time was moving, but it didn’t seem to be taking him along for the ride.

“When did you know you were …”

_Even she can’t say it. Even Hannah knows how bad this is._

“The first time I met Blaise, we were four. I do not remember anything else about being four, but I accidentally caused a teacup to bubble over. You can’t control magic at that age, of course. Stupid shit, but when you are four you think your parents will kill you for spilling something on Ms. Zabini’s carpet. It was the end of the world. Even then, I knew what Father was capable of doing to me.”

“What does this have to do with—“

“Blaise told his mother he spilled it. He lied for me and it is one of the earliest things I remember. Blaise is the type of person who puts himself first, but he never did when it came to me. We have always been together and I thought we always would be together just like that. The one and only time I met a, um, well, a wizard  _like that_ , was when one came to the manor with an investment opportunity for Father. He said, ‘We cannot have that kind of man in the Malfoy household.’ So I just ignored everything about Blaise that made him feel good to me.

“I started to think about what that meant after the World Cup. The blood trai—Weasley. Ugh, I swear I am getting better, Hannah. He just—“

“I know,” she chuckled.

“Weasley called Blaise my boyfriend. It was one thing for Housemates to do it because I did not realize they were serious. But Weasley … he’s a threat. If he sees Blaise as my boyfriend, it makes Blaise a target. At that point I had to ask myself why I cared.”

“And that’s when you knew?”

“No.” Draco shook his head and stared at his hands, folded in his lap. “I knew that I missed him. When I saw him on the Hogwarts Express, I realized I was attracted to him. I thought I could ignore that, too. At some point I recognized that staying together would mean marriage, which wasn’t possible.”

“But you are the leader! You could—“

“No, I can’t!” Draco shouted. A couple nearby Hufflepuffs glanced over. “No. I am going to disappoint my father enough, I do not need to add this on top of it.”

“You’d break your own heart to please a father who, what? What has he actually done for you, Draco?”

“He gave me a home!”

“And he’d take it away?” Hannah asked. “My mum wants me to make a name for myself in the wizarding world and my dad wants me to live in the Muggle world. I will disappoint one of them, obviously, but neither of them would ever try and choose for me.”

“Marriage was chosen for me before I was even born, Hannah! When I realized that is what I wanted with Blaise, I shut down completely. I cannot process living life without him here, and what is worse is I think he would say the same about me.”

“I don’t understand why that is bad,” Hannah replied.

_Because I have maybe four years left before I leave him for good._

“Because … because it is not what I need,” Draco finished lamely. No follow-through; Hannah couldn’t know about Hermione. Hannah couldn’t know his death date had practically been set.

“You think that,” Hannah said, “but you are wrong.”

 _I am not_.

“The worst part of all this is that Blaise probably expects me to change my mind. I want to, Hannah, I really want to. I want to say fuck the universe and date him and marry him. I want to expel him so I will not have to hear his name anymore, so I don’t have to look at him and see the future I am giving up staring me in the fucking face.”

“I don’t understand, again,” Hannah said. “What exactly did you do?”

“I told him no and I told him he could stay.”

“Wow, that’s … Huh.”

“Stupid, I know.”

“I was going to say it seems very brave.”

“It’s selfish and I should change my mind but … You know what? I don’t want to. Like you said, I am the leader and I make the decisions and I have decided that Blaise gets to stay. That’s it, right?”

“It is if you say it is,” Hannah replied.

Draco stood abruptly and ran out of the common room. Hannah did not follow him. He practically flew to the dungeons. “Salazar!” he shouted, and the door opened to reveal the entire House milling about.

He stalked over to where Blaise sat in one of the wing-backed chairs. Blaise looked up, expectant.

“I did not change my mind; I am not sending you away,” Draco said. He had no more tears to cry. His eyes were dry, his throat was dry, and his fear was gone. Blaise stood and grabbed Draco in a fierce hug.

“By your side, whether you want me there or not,” he said.

**.oOo.**

It was late March when Headmaster Dumbledore crashed the Slytherins’ Potions lesson. Professor Snape stopped inspecting one of the Gryffindor cauldrons as Dumbledore whispered in his ear. Snape got the little eleven between his eyebrows when he looked at Dumbledore. While his brow was always furrowed, he looked unusually perplexed as he whispered something back to the headmaster. Whispers never amounted to anything good.

Both professors motioned for Pansy to join them outside the classroom. Draco and Blaise shared a look.

_Oh, no._

 

Draco gave them thirty seconds before bolting out the classroom door. Pansy was crying and Professor Snape had no idea what to do.  _Comfort has never been his strong suit._ Draco pulled her into a hug and Pansy went limp in his arms. While it was obvious this would happen eventually, it was disconcerting to finally arrive at this moment. It was always an abstract concept somewhere in the future, but the future had finally caught up to them. Draco could only think of one thing to say.

“You are not alone, Pans. We will take care of everything. You are not alone.”

The worst part had been watching Pansy tell Hannah Abbott. Hannah wrapped her in that under-the-arms hug girls sometimes do, and just kind of shushed Pansy, who hadn’t stopped crying for several hours.

“She was always there and now she’s gone,” Pansy sniffled.

“I know, Pans,” Hannah whispered. “I know.”

“And I wasn’t even  _there!_ ”

“You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Maybe I—”

“Look at me, Pans!” She obliged. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

They stood there like that for a couple minutes. Pansy was different with Hannah. She allowed herself to be held, to be comforted in a way she didn’t with Draco or Blaise.

“Do you want me to come?” Hannah asked.

“I don’t think she would’ve wanted you there,” Pansy admitted.

“What do you want?”

Pansy considered it for a moment.

“There will be some people there I am not sure would … I, uh, I don’t know if it would be safe for you to come,” Pansy admitted. “More importantly, there will be people there who I don’t like to be associated with. I don’t want you to look at them and think of me, or look at me and think of them.”

“Your parents,” Hannah clarified. “You’re talking about your parents?”

“Yeah,” Pansy said, sounding as though her throat was very dry.

**.oOo.**

 

Florence Marjorie Burke died on March 28th, 1995. Pansy’s maternal grandmother was the only family she knew, as both her parents were sent to Azkaban when she was two. The entirety of Pureblood society came to the funeral to honour the hierarchy’s oldest member.

Only Pansy’s mother was granted dispensation to attend. She never wrote. She never cared, not really. Pansy’s mother and father were loyal to the Dark Lord, while Pansy herself was little more than an afterthought. Children were a way to create more soldiers. Prop up Voldemort’s reign even after they were long gone.

The funeral location was gorgeous, almost too beautiful for such a somber occasion. The students left Hogwarts in their darkest best via Portkey. A deep-violet casket was nestled between two trees in the forest behind the Parkinson house. Pansy took a seat near the centre aisle, Blaise to her left and Draco at her right. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy also sat the front row. Hermione was around somewhere but made herself scarce. She was not welcome here.

Three Dementors accompanied Mrs. Parkinson when she arrived and took a seat in the front row on the other side of the aisle. She was thin and pale, and she looked nothing like her daughter. Pansy shuffled awkwardly and never met her mother’s gaze. (A fact made much easier since Mrs. Parkinson never spared her daughter a glance.) Ms. Zabini sat next to Mrs. Parkinson and Draco heard Blaise grind his teeth in frustration.

_Time to choose a side._

Herman Wintringham opened the ceremony with a lute performance of “Flow My Tears,” with Myron Wagtail singing the accompanied lyrics. It was a strange moment, as Draco felt rather helpless and frightened. He was not sad, not really. Pansy’s grandmother had never taken a liking to him. Not since it was clear that Pansy would not be Draco’s future wife as was planned.

The casket was open, Mrs. Burke’s corpse decadently laid out for all to see. She was so limp and … lifeless. Which was a strange thing to realize, but Draco had always assumed that death was more like a suspension of life. It was weird to realize one day it would be him lying in a casket like that: limp and lifeless. As Myron crooned out, “Hark! You shadows that in darkness dwell, learn to contemn light. Happy, happy they that in hell feel not the world’s despite,” Draco couldn’t stop staring.

_So this is what death looks like._

Pansy stood to close the casket. Once her mother was carted off to Azkaban, everything was in Pansy’s name. She inherited it all, including the responsibility of facilitating the ceremony. Every part of Pansy was shaking. She couldn’t keep her eyes focused on anyone and worked desperately to avoid looking at her mother. She found Draco and kept her eyes on him. Draco resolutely, and silently, agreed to keep eye contact as long as she needed it.

She scrambled to pull a wad of parchment from the pocket of her robes. Pansy cleared her throat and said,

“I, uh, Grandmum would have wanted me to say something. So I will say, um, something. I’ve just written it down here.”

 _Steady, Pans,_  Draco tried to send good vibes her way but it was impossible. She was not prepared for this; it happened too early. None of them were prepared.

“There were two things my grandmum always told me that I think about a lot. I, uh, the first one was to know who your friends are. She said your friends are the ones who take care of you when they don’t have to. Friends are the ones who recognize you are beneath them and elevate you because they believe you deserve it.

“And I have some of the best friends in the world. Without Grandmum, I would’ve taken them for granted. Blaise is the prettiest, most decent person you will ever meet. He was decent to me even though everyone thought the person he was in love with would end up with me.”

All the students shifted awkwardly in their seats. Narcissa Malfoy glanced downward and did a double-take once she saw the ring on Blaise’s finger.

“Draco Malfoy is my best friend,” Pansy continued. “He struggles a lot and he trusts me to help him through it all. There is no greater honour in this world, and I have Grandmum to thank for helping me to appreciate these two young wizards as I should.”

She took a deep breath and frowned.  _Pans, whatever you’re about to say, be sure._

“The other thing Grandmum always told me was that blood traitors are just as bad as Mudbloods. But I don’t see it that way. I think what she meant was that, um, that regardless of the choices made by people before you, it’s where you end up that counts. I think that she meant you judge your friends not by who their parents are, but by how they help you.

“So, in a way, I have Grandmum to thank for my other best friend, Hannah Abbott.”

There were several gasps from throughout the crowd. All from the parents, of course. This was a bold move. Draco saw his parents tense and Pansy’s mother wore an expression of disgust. Pansy stared down at her piece of parchment, a nervous wreck. Her voice started to shake.

“Hannah is like sunshine. She is happy and there for me every day, and I know she is going to be there the next day, too. When I heard Grandmum died, I felt lost and alone. I felt that way because Grandmum was always there for me, she knew what I wanted, and I could depend on her. Now that she’s gone, I wondered whether I could feel safe like that again. When I told Hannah, though, I felt like maybe I wasn’t going to face life alone after all. Draco and Blaise have responsibilities to me, but Hannah doesn’t have any of that. She just loves me because she does, and I think Grandmum would’ve liked to know that.

“Florence Marjorie Burke was the most important person in my life. She will not be forgotten by me and I will try to make her proud. I thank you all for coming to help me honour her life today and send her to the next life in appropriate fashion.”

Pansy crumpled up the parchment and stuffed it back into her robes. Draco looked at Blaise and mouthed,  _Are you with me?_  Blaise nodded in reply.

She walked around the casket so she was behind it, facing the audience. This ceremony wasn’t meant to be performed by someone underage, and everyone knew it. Draco was nervous and Blaise was doing the thing where he bit his lip because he couldn’t do anything to help.

Pansy waved a hand from one end of the casket to the other, and the wood disintegrated into a purple pile as she went. The cinders erupted into blue flames and the ground opened beneath them, swallowing the ashes whole. Pansy’s tears fell into the open ground, then a purple sapling grew out of the hole. It closed around the tree roots so where there was once a coffin, there was only a small violet-coloured tree.

**.oOo.**

The sky was a deep, clear blue on the evening of the third task. Draco, Pansy, and Blaise arrived early and took seats in the second row of the stands. Mother was here somewhere, but Father was, “indisposed.”

Viktor was not nervous. He was confident and brash, certain he could still overcome Potter and Diggory. Draco hoped he would, but doubted it. Potter had a way of disrupting everything Draco wanted.

The task itself was rather dull. They stared at a giant maze for over an hour before Potter and Diggory returned together. A joint Hogwarts victory! Draco smiled, realizing Potter would only get half the winnings.

It was Blaise who noticed first. Blaise gripped the collar of Draco’s sweater and pulled him forward. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. Hermione was there, but why? Potter was alright, wasn’t he? But he was shaking.

“He’s dead,” Hermione said, warily.

No, he’s moving. Potter is moving …

But Diggory isn’t.

“No …” Pansy murmured. Potter clung to Cedric Diggory as a group of professors huddled over him. The rest of the stands had yet to realize anything was amiss. They roared with approval for the Hogwarts champions, not realizing there was only one winner.

Cedric’s body was splayed about awkwardly, his arms and legs bent as though he’d just fallen to the ground in a heap.

“Voldemort is back, Draco,” he heard Hermione say. He didn’t process it at first. “Voldemort did this.”

“He wouldn’t,” Draco insisted. “Diggory is a Half-blood.”

“Cedric got in the way,” Hermione replied. “This is what happens when you get in his way.”

Diggory’s mouth was half-open in surprise. His trousers were torn in several places, probably from whatever he met inside the maze. His sleeves were stained with blood and his eyes were vacant. This was different from Pansy’s grandmother. Draco could see Diggory—had seen him hours earlier in the Great Hall. He saw Cedric eat eggs that morning and had an odd sense of sadness upon realizing Diggory would never eat eggs again.

Cedric hadn’t expected to die, that was clear in his face. This was unnecessary and Draco felt a sudden chill. There are rules to be followed, rules of combat, rules of engagement, rules meant to protect people. Rules meant to help people. Rules were there to maintain balance and order, just as Draco’s parents had taught him. In one move, Voldemort sent it all to hell.

_What does this mean for me? Is he really back? Am I now second to him? Will the House follow me, or will they turn?_

Draco shrugged off Blaise and reached for Hermione’s hand.

“Tell me it’s not true,” he insisted. Blaise and Pansy were looking at him with worry. “Tell me it’s not him, that he’s not back, that Diggory isn’t dead. Tell me that I don’t have to worry about being second. Tell me this isn’t happening—not now!”

Hermione hugged him, playing the shield again. Everyone else was too distracted by the scene below to notice.

“I told you it gets harder. This is the fire, Draco. This is it.”

Draco turned back around to see Diggory’s parents.Their only child, lost because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. **No.**

Their only child, lost because a madman decided the world did not need Cedric Diggory in it.

Cedric’s father shouted in agony. He emitted high-pitched shrieks as though he was in physical pain. Mr. Diggory clutched his chest, clawing at his heart as though he could rip it out and give new life to his son. Mrs. Diggory stood off to the side, unable to look at her son. She had a hand over her mouth, the whites of her eyes slowly going red.

 _So this is what death looks like._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We do not get any canon information about the Parkinsons, so here's my headcancon for this story:  
> *Pansy's grandmother raised her because her parents were sent to Azkaban.  
> *Pansy's grandmother is her mother's mother.  
> *Pansy's grandmother's name is Florence because it means "to flower" and pansy is a flower.  
> *When someone is sent to Azkaban for a life sentence, their heir is responsible for carrying out the family duties. That is VERY IMPORTANT. That WILL DEFINITELY RESURFACE AGAIN.
> 
> As always, comments and criticisms are always appreciated. I was happy to give Pansy some much-needed character development. Still v iffy about last chapter, I think I may have fiddled with it too much.


	18. XVII: "Little Malfoy"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death, near-death, and it's about dang time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to thank all of you who are reading this as I post, because WIPs are never easy to follow and I am notoriously unscheduled. Second, I send my sincere appreciation to all of you who comment on this fic constructively. I've had some not-so-positive criticism left on multiple works recently, and I can safely say I've learned more from the five (five!) months I've been writing this fic than I have working on any other. It's because y'all have been so helpful and I am grateful. 
> 
> Finally, I know I promised you a Dramione story and this is where we finally get to a place where they ... Well, where it finally makes sense. Also, thank you again, as we're closing in on 2K hits!! Please forgive any spelling and grammar errors as my only beta is Spellcheck. (Also, TW for asphyxiation. If that's a problem for you, skip the entire middle section.)

Harry Potter was not mental.

A great big prat who couldn’t magic his way out of a wet paper bag, yes, but he was not mad. Voldemort had returned and almost no one believed it. Professor Snape knew—he had to have known, his Mark would have burned. Karkaroff bolted the day after the Triwizard Tournament and the Durmstrang students turned to Krum for leadership in his absence.

Packing his trunk that final day, Draco wondered what he was going home to. His fellow Slytherins didn’t believe Harry Potter either. (“My parents would have told me.”) Pansy thought Draco was touched in the head. Blaise, though, believed Hermione because “she had no reason to lie.” Draco wondered what, exactly, life would be like with this secret. Would Father admit Voldemort was back or keep up the pretense?

The Great Hall, normally decorated in the colours of the winning House, was dark and a series of black drapes hung behind the staff table for the Leaving Feast. Headmaster Dumbledore stood and everyone went silent.

“The end,” said Dumbledore, looking around at them all, “of another year.”

He paused and his eyes fell upon the Hufflepuff table. They were the most subdued table and theirs were still the saddest and palest faces in the Hall. Draco briefly wondered if the Slytherin table would look the same when he …

“There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight,” said Dumbledore, “but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person who should be sitting here,” he gestured toward the Hufflepuffs, “enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand and raise your glasses to Cedric Diggory.”

They did it, all of them; the benches scraped as everyone in the Hall stood, albeit the Slytherin table a little slower than the rest, and raised their goblets, and echoed, in one loud, low, rumbling voice, “Cedric Diggory.”

Everything was fine, morose but fine, until Dumbledore offered up a bit more than the student body could handle.

“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.”

_Merlin’s pants, Dumbledore’s gone ‘round the bend. He can’t just confirm things like that. It’s … It’s fucking terrifying._

A panicked whisper swept the Great Hall. People stared at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He looked perfectly calm as he watched the students mutter themselves into silence.

“The Ministry of Magic does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so—either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are.”

_They aren’t wrong._

“It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.”

Crabbe and Goyle muttered something and giggled. Draco kicked them under the table.

“Shut up,” he whispered angrily. “You can laugh later, but can you fucking dolts at least pretend to have some decency?”

Draco noticed Potter glaring at him, probably assuming the worst. Crabbe and Goyle were staring at him too, confused. Potter had no idea Draco was not committed to the cause, so let him glare. Let him make assumptions and let him cope.

“There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cedric’s death,” Dumbledore continued. “I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter. Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort. He risked his own life to return Cedric’s body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honour him.”

Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry and raised his goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall followed suit, but not the Slytherin table. They all looked to Draco for guidance, wondering whether it was appropriate.

Draco defiantly set his goblet on the table. The Slytherins all did the same. It was laughable to honour Potter bring the body back. That is loyalty and loyalty is expected, not rewarded. Just like Dumbledore, just like this fucking school to applaud what Slytherins considered common decency and attack them for being “indecent.” Slytherins would not raise a glass for Harry Potter’s “bravery.”

Once everyone resumed their seats, Dumbledore continued, “The Triwizard Tournament’s aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened—of Lord Voldemort’s return—such ties are more important than ever before.”

Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons students, to Viktor and the Durmstrangs at the end of the Slytherin table. Krum looked wary, like he expected Dumbledore to say something harsh, to admonish them for being taught by such a coward, a runaway.

“Every guest in this Hall,” said Dumbledore, and his eyes lingered on the Durmstrang students, “will be welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again—in the light of Lord Voldemort’s return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord Voldemort’s gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.”

All Draco needed was to look at Hermione to know that his own parents and Voldemort and every last Death Eater were wrong. Did his Housemates trust him more than they trusted their own families? More than they trusted Lord Malfoy? Draco knew the answer and didn’t like it.

“It is my belief—and never have I so hoped that I am mistaken—that we are all facing dark and difficult times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort.”

“Remember Cedric. Remember if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort.”

_Remember what happened to a boy who was good and kind and brave because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort._

_He died._

_What about Malfoy boys? What about strong, entitled, absolutely fucking terrified boys who stray across the path of Lord Voldemort? What happens to them?_

Draco would not remember Cedric Diggory and the mundane way he ate eggs for breakfast—for his last breakfast. Draco would remember him for those vacant eyes and the agonized wails of a father standing over the body of his dead son. Draco would remember Cedric as a warning of his own future.

Hermione’s hand was on his shoulder and he couldn’t remember how long she had been there. Knowing she was nearby, knowing everything he might have become, Draco knew he was right. He wasn’t good like Cedric or particularly well-liked and might not be remembered fondly, but he would fight for the right side this time. Hannah would tell people that Draco did the right thing. And Blaise … Well, he deserved a better lover anyway. There was still only one question on Draco’s mind the on the journey back:

_What am I going home to?_

**.oOo.**

The manor felt colder than Draco remembered. Maybe not cold so much as foreign and dangerous; more like the Malfoy Manor of his early childhood than the home it had come to be. Somehow, “home” felt like it no longer belonged to him. It was like someone dropped a bucket of ice water on Draco’s head, but instead of cold he felt anger. Anger at himself, at his mother, at Father. Narcissa Malfoy’s posture was rigid and her eyes wide as she searched out corners on their way to drop Draco’s trunk in his room. House-elves scuttled quickly toward the kitchen and away from the second floor. Every single one, like they were running to safety.

“Something is wrong here,” Hermione observed.

Mother said nothing until Draco dragged his trunk into his bedroom. She hugged him fiercely and said,

“Oh, mon destin, I love you more than anyone or anything in the world and there will never be a time when that is not true. Do not bother unpacking, you will not be here long, I hope. But He was insistent on meeting you and Lucius won’t—cannot say no.”

Draco stepped backward and worriedly replied, “Mother, what is wrong? Who wants to meet me? Have I done something? Has Father said something?”

“No, no, what is happening now is the consequence of choices your father and I made long ago.”

“Is he upset about Blaise? I could not send him away for something so stupid, Mother. I love him too much--”

“Oh, mon loulou, I wish we could worry about Blaise Zabini. I wish our life was so simple. Things are different now.”

Hermione nervously chewed on her thumbnail.

“You must know it was not always like this,” Narcissa insisted as they walked toward Father’s study. “He was charming and such a great leader for our cause. A true champion of pureblood heritage, if not an example himself. We were going to restore order and reclaim our place at the top of the wizarding world.

“Your father is trying to regain his status the only way he knows. I fought this, but in the end I am not one of them and your father thinks this is the best thing to do. It is one of those times—“

“—he does not know what he is talking about?” Draco finished. Narcissa smiled gravely in response.

He was confused. Hermione wasn’t with him when they approached the study. He didn’t look back. When they entered, Father was speaking to someone out of view in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Lucius Malfoy looked up in surprise, like he forgot Draco was coming home that day. Narcissa shifted herself in front of her son and said,

“Draco is back.”

“Ah … let me see the younger Malfoy,” a strange voice called from the chair. It was almost breathy, a slight gasp like there was something heavy on this person’s chest. Lucius jerked his head minutely and Narcissa led Draco to stand in front of their guest.

Mother curtsied and bowed her head.

“My lord.”

Draco gasped, disgusted.

Lord Voldemort in the flesh, if you could call it that, was in this house. His skin looked like sheets from Hannah’s sketchbook, so white and rough. It was difficult to believe this … this  _thing_  could ever have been the charming man his mother described. He had no hair and no lips, like something they might have scooped from the depths of the Black Lake. His eyes were bright red and so thin only the tiniest lick of flames could be reflected in them. His wand dangled lazily from abnormally long fingers, and he lounged in the chair as though he was too weak to sit upright.

_This is the man who caused such terror the wizarding world still refuses to speak his name? This is the man to whom my father bows in reverence?_

Father coughed expectantly.

“It appears, Lucius, you never taught your son how to greet his superiors,” Voldemort said, equal parts offended and chastising.

“Yes, my lord, I apologize—“

“I have no superiors,” Draco cut his father off. Lord Voldemort’s snake-like nostrils flared and he leaned forward.

“Kneel,” Voldemort demanded.

“No,” Draco replied, disgusted and offended anyone could ask that of him.

“Do as he says, my son,” Lucius admonished.

_What?“Demand respect and they will give it to you,” Father told me._

“No,” Draco said, firmer this time. “And I sure as hell am not going to kneel in my own home!”

“Draco please—“ Mother begged him, but stopped suddenly as a black mist formed at the tip of Voldemort’s wand. They all watched as it swirled into a pair of black ribbons, and Draco had the briefest moment to wonder what was happening before they spat toward him like snake tongues and wound themselves around his neck.

_Oh, shit._

Draco commanded him to stop, but the ribbons tightened in response. He pulled at them, tried to rip them to no avail. Father, sensing peril, tried to reason with the Dark Lord.

“You will find, my lord, that Draco is a gifted practitioner of magic. Top of his class at Hogwarts, even if he is a disappointment in other areas. He will be a useful soldier and a pair of eyes inside the school if you only allow him to serve you.”

Draco was scared because Voldemort was much stronger than he appeared. Draco’s heart beat too quickly as less and less air found its way into his lungs. Then he went from scared to downright terrified. He knew he could end it, all he needed to do was kneel as Voldemort requested. But his mind clung to something Hermione said long ago:

_The sooner you start actually making choices instead of doing what everyone wants you to do, the sooner you’ll finally feel like a Malfoy._

“My lord, please,” Narcissa begged him to stop as Draco continued to struggle. Voldemort jerked his wand backward, the strings pulled on Draco like he was a puppet and he fell to the floor, face-first, twisting just in time to land on his side as he gasped for air.

“You kneel or you die, little Malfoy.”

_“Demand respect and they will give it to you.” Is this what respect looks like, Father?_

“No,” Draco choked out, having no breath for anything else. He flopped on the study floor like a fish desperate for water. Everything around him seemed to quicken its pace, while Draco’s ability to move seemed all too slow. He tried desperately to get his fingers between the ribbons and his neck, but they were too tight. Black spots appeared in his sightline but he continued to tug at the silk-like ropes. He was bound to Voldemort’s wand like a leashed animal.

“My lord, I beg of you, have mercy on us! We welcomed you into our home and this is how you repay some of your most loyal servants?!” Mother shouted.

Draco’s vision telescoped; he could see less than what he couldn’t. He couldn’t see his mother, even though he heard her cry out, “Lucius, do something!” Predictably, Father did nothing.

_Shouldn’t Hermione be here? Or is this it? Is my death so laughably unimportant and undignified she can’t be bothered to care?_

But suddenly, Draco could breathe. The ribbon loosened its hold around his neck. His vision returned and he could see the frayed edges of the ribbons glowing gold before they disappeared entirely. Draco clutched his chest, forcing air back into his lungs. Hermione wrapped her arms around him and scooped him up off the floor, one arm around his waist.

Voldemort was stunned and angry at being one-upped by a teenager. He cursed his own frailty and demanded an explanation. Father provided one, he used the truth of “gifted but a disappointment in other areas” to cover for Hermione’s existence. Draco was grateful because he, too, thought it was best to keep Hermione hidden from this monster. Draco’s instincts told him Voldemort would find a way to use Hermione the moment he found out about her.

“Draco will be staying with the Zabinis this summer,” Mother revealed, her tone harsh. Before Draco could ask when that was decided, Voldemort said,

“Zabini? He is the  _off_  one, yes?”

If Draco could have croaked out anything it would have been, “Fuck you,” so it was probably best he couldn’t. Hermione trembled around him. She couldn’t look at Voldemort. She couldn’t look at Draco either.

He shrugged Hermione off and stomped back to his room in disbelief. Angry that Father agreed to bring the most dangerous person on the planet into their home. Angry that he underestimated Voldemort. Angry that everyone expected him to graciously play servant to a madman.

“This is your home, mon destin!” Mother insisted as Draco grabbed his trunk.

“Is it?” Draco asked. When she did not respond he again shouted, “Is it?” Spittle flew from his mouth and he shook uncontrollably. His throat ached and bruises had already started to form on his neck.

“You just need to recognize what we are now. All of us serve—“

“He  _hurt me_ , Mother. If Hermione was not here I would be dead and for what? Because I would not kneel before him? I am only doing as you taught me. How could you agree to let him live here? To let him use us like this?”

“My son,” Narcissa took him by the shoulders and looked up into his eyes. “Yes, I told you never to lower yourself, but to men. The Dark Lord is more. He has more power and can ruin us with a flick of his wand or one word to the right person. One word to Fenrir Greyback, Draco and we are …” she shuddered, the thought too terrible to finish.

“How can that matter? After fifteen years of telling me I am meant to be nothing short of a king, you expect me to bow to a man who would kill me?”

“Draco, do not be so stupid! Would I ask you to do this if we had another choice?” She nodded toward the trunk, still packed. “You are not going to the Zabini house, it is the first place they will look for you. Make no mistake, once the Dark Lord is stronger, he will make his demand again. The house-elves in the villa will not talk; you will be safe there for the summer.”

“I will go, but I am going to do what is right,” Draco insisted.

“We do not do what is right, Draco, we do what it takes to survive!”

There it was: the admission they had gone too far in their association with the Dark Lord. The pureblood society their ancestors had crafted now indistinguishable from the Death Eaters. Voldemort corrupted it for his own gain, just as Dumbledore implied.

“Voldemort is right about one thing,” Draco admitted. “I will die before I kneel.”

Narcissa Malfoy nodded and wiped away a tear. Draco hugged her once more in goodbye. He swallowed hard and regretted it when his throat burned. He still felt weird, too angry. All he wanted to do was run, and thank Merlin that Narcissa would let him.

“I am so proud of you,” she said. He was a couple inches taller than his mother, but she still managed to run her fingers through his hair like she did when he was little. “I am scared for you, but you are becoming the leader your father never was. That makes me proud.”

**.oOo.**

“You knew!” Draco shouted as he threw his trunk on the villa floor. He was exhausted, his neck was mostly purple, and his shoulder hurt from where he landed gracelessly on Father’s study floor.

“You let me head in there unaware and unprepared, though you knew! I had to face that monster alone! You promised me! You promised—“

He stopped abruptly when he realized Hermione was nowhere around. Draco rolled his eyes and lugged his trunk into one of the bedrooms. He brushed off the house-elves who tried to assist because he wanted to hold onto something. He’d hauled the damn thing everywhere since dawn and it was approaching dusk. In the twelve hours since Draco departed Hogwarts, he’d had his home taken away and nearly died. He muttered expletives under his breath as he walked through the bedroom door.

Hermione sat on the bed with her legs curled into her chest. She rested her head between her knees and twined her fingers into the roots of her hair like she was just trying to hold herself together. Her aura was gone. There was no rainbow sheen against Hermione’s skin, no colour or light surrounding her.

For the first time in fifteen years she looked completely human.

“Hey,” Draco said, his voice softened to something barely above a whisper.

Hermione did not answer. She held up one finger which Draco took to mean,  _Wait._  She swallowed, breathed in once, exhaled, and lifted her head. Draco gasped.

“Are you … are you crying?” he asked, immediately wishing he could take it back. Hermione wiped her eyes with her sleeves and sniffed.

“No,” she lied. Draco dropped his trunk, stepped toward Hermione, and grabbed her hand.

“You’re trembling,” he replied.

“Shut up,” Hermione said as she snatched her hand away.

“Are … are you angry with me?” Draco asked, confused.

“You are so stupid,” Hermione said, somewhere between a scoff and a sardonic laugh. She wiped away tears again.

“You know I hate when you do this, when you make me try to figure out what you are saying. For once, would you just say it?!”

“I am afraid, Draco!” she shouted.

_Oh._

“The very last thing I remember from my life is Voldemort’s death. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you that but … I saw him for the first time that day. Before then, we were always chasing after a ghost or something. Harry always seemed to face him alone and his face … I’d forgotten what he looked like. And that day, Draco … So many people died. My friends died! I almost died! All because of him and I couldn’t face him again because it took me right back there and I was so scared. I wore part of his soul; I knew what it felt like. I knew when we walked into the manor that he was there, so I ran away. I ran away from you, from what I knew you were being led to.”

What a day. Draco had seen his parents bow. He’d seen Hermione run away and he’d seen a dead man come back to life. Somehow, none of that frightened him just then. Hermione continued,

“Then I felt something, like I needed to go to you and my heart started beating really quickly and I couldn’t think anything except, ‘Save Draco.’ I didn’t understand it until I saw you dying. I can’t explain it, but I felt that it wasn’t right. I broke Voldemort’s curse somehow and if you asked me, well, I couldn’t explain that either.

“All you ever told me was that you wanted to be like your father, so I am still afraid. I am afraid I didn’t do enough. I knew how to help Harry but I don’t know how to help you. Voldemort chopped his soul into tiny fragments until he was more demon than man. Your friends will follow him just like your parents, they’ll believe him out of fear unless you show them otherwise.”

Draco was still angry, but not with the same rage that filled him back at the manor. No, he was angry that he was going to die and not get the chance to be the man he wanted to be. He was angry that Hermione could not see how much she’d already done, how she was there to push him in a way his parents never could.

“You are right to be afraid. I was not scared of Voldemort until … this,” Draco said, wincing as he gingerly touched his neck. “I never considered kneeling in front of him to save myself. One of the first things you ever said to me—you called me stupid then, too—was that making my own choices would make me a true Malfoy. More than I wanted to be like my father, I wanted to earn my name. I focused on your voice, on what you told me, and I knew it was right.”

Hermione smiled for a moment so brief Draco nearly missed it. She said,

“I can’t be brave for you. I can’t make you do what I know is right, but I know you can be better than him.”

“I am,” Draco replied without hesitation.

Hermione looked him in the eyes then, searching for a reason not to believe him. She stood up so they were face-to-face and tilted her head to one side as if to ask, “When did this happen?”

“I chose you because I am scared. You were scared, too, but you were there when it mattered. I need that more than anything. For some reason, when I need to remember what it means to be a Malfoy, it is your voice I hear in my head, not my parents’. So choosing to trust you is the right choice, I think.”

Hermione stood on her toes, then, and surprised Draco with a quick kiss. He made a small noise of surprise against her lips, puffy and soft and  _real_.

Draco returned the affection by pressing his lips more firmly against hers, and Hermione started to get greedy like she, too, was surprised this was real and wanted to get as much as she could before the dream was over. She pulled back just enough to breathe before nipping at Draco’s bottom lip and tasting him. She was tentative in her exploration, her kisses soft and lingering. Draco closed his eyes because this felt  _real_. The only question running through his head was,

_Why?_

Hermione put her hand on Draco’s neck to try to bring him closer, but he winced in pain and turned away. She stepped backward and apologized. Draco nodded, unable to bring his gaze up from the floor.

“You did not have to do that to apologize to me. You didn’t need to kiss me to make me happy.”

“Yeah, that was my very altruistic tongue in your mouth just then,” Hermione deadpanned. Draco laughed. “I am sorry,” Hermione admitted. “I’m sorry I ran away from you and I promise I will never do it again.”

“Okay,” Draco said, awkwardly.

“Hey, look at me!” Hermione demanded, grabbing his chin and tilting his face upward. “You deserve to have some happiness in your life and if I can give it to you I am damn well going to do it, understand?”

Draco nodded.

“Good. I didn’t kiss you to apologize. I kissed you because I love you and I am so proud of you, Draco Malfoy.”

“Thank you,” Draco whispered. “I am grateful to have you, I really am.”

“You were so brave today, and every time I start to forget why the universe chose you, you remind me why. If there’s anything I can do to make up for running away, name it and it’s yours.”

Draco thought about it for a moment.

“Tell me who put MUDBLOOD on your arm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and criticism are always appreciated. The "my altruistic tongue" line was lifted from a fic I just read, [Slipping off the Page into Your Hands,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2626499) and I loved it so much because it sounded like something Hermione would say. I hope this progression felt natural. It is weird because Blaise was, in the first few blockings of this story, going to die in this chapter. Take this as a lesson: never fall in love with your characters otherwise you'll end up rewriting your entire plot. 
> 
> Thank you again, for reading. All of you. This is a labour of love, an attempt to make Draco the good man I always believed he could be.


	19. XVIII: "I Trust You"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain, flirting, and more pain. Mostly pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, more pain for Hermione and Draco. It's been ten weeks or so, I know, and I apologize. I spent the bulk of that time writing [this fluffy Dramione piece.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12655041/chapters/28841457) Once it was finished, I didn't have it in me to come back here. I liked writing a happy story for Draco, Blaise, and Hermione. I liked writing proposals and fake dates and little Scorpius, none of which we'll see here. (However, I do think y'all might like that story. I had a good time writing it.)
> 
> I love this story and it will be finished! I went back and edited every chapter. There are no major changes, but I cleaned it up a bit if you want to go back and reread it. Thank you for reading, coming back, and for giving me the encouragement to continue.

Hermione went completely still at the mention of her scar.

Draco wished he’d just kissed her again because she was too damn quiet. Had he asked for too much? No one gave him a Reaper manual, for Merlin’s sake! How the hell was he supposed to know what to do unless Hermione told him? Unless Hermione was honest about everything that happened to her?

She Disapparated. Just like his father, she would rather leave Draco alone than deal with his emotions. A house-elf brought him water before Draco collapsed on his bed. He sipped it slowly, his throat still burned. He took Blaise’s ring off his finger and spun it around a couple times. The light glanced off an engraving inside:

“K.S.”

Nothing else, just initials. Draco drifted off to a welcome sleep, wondering why K.S. had given Blaise a ring. (And why Blaise felt it was important enough to belong on Draco’s finger.)

**.oOo.**

There were two cabinets.

The first where it always was, right in front of him in the small, windowless room with no exit. Everything appeared exactly the same as it did each time the dream began. When Draco turned around, there was an identical cabinet directly across from the other one.

_That’s new._

Draco walked to the second cabinet and flung the doors open.

_Nothing._

There was always a bird or a feather inside, generally more than a few birds and several free-floating feathers. This new cabinet held nothing. Draco’s legs seemed to move of their own accord as something inside him was compelled to step into the cabinet. There was hardly enough room for him to stand up straight, and though he squinted there was nothing to be seen of the cabinet’s back wall.

The doors slammed shut behind him with a loud thud, plunging him into total darkness.

_Oh, shit._

Draco was paralyzed with fear, except for his heart which thrummed so quickly and at such a decibel it was the only sound he could hear. He had never been outside of the room before. Though he knew he would eventually wake up, Draco had no idea what to expect until then. He reached out his right arm to lean against the inner wall of the cabinet, but fell over heavily onto his side.

_There are no walls. So maybe if I …_

Draco got up and took one step forward … then another … and another. He stopped and wondered, briefly, whether he was being led into a trap. Whether this was a mind game or some extended, inescapable metaphor. He steadied his breathing and took another step forward.

“LITTLE MALFOY!”

Draco stopped dead in his tracks.

_What the hell was that?_

But nothing happened. It was His voice—Voldemort’s voice. Draco stood still, waiting for another sound, but none came. He took one more step.

“A DISAPPOINTMENT IN OTHER AREAS!”

Draco jumped, though he should’ve known it was coming.

_What the hell is this?_

There was no way to go but forward. Perhaps backward, but intuition told him that would only make things worse. He started walking and with each step the shouting only heightened.

“YOU KNEEL OR YOU DIE!”

“WE DO WHAT IT TAKES TO SURVIVE!”

 “—LIKE SOME ARSEHOLE INFERIUS— ”

“I DON’T WANT TO THINK ABOUT YOU DYING AS A CHILD!”

“YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN WEAKER THAN I EVER WAS!”

Draco sprinted forward. He thought the faster he ran, the faster he could leave. The faster he could make it all stop. He still couldn’t see anything. For all he knew, he was running in a circle.

“THERE IS TOO MUCH RESTING ON YOUR SHOULDERS!”

“YOU MAKE HIM FEEL UNWORTHY, TOO!”

“HOW IS IT THE UNIVERSE CHOSE TO RESHAPE YOUR DESTINY AND NOT HARRY POTTER’S?”

“WE MUST SURVIVE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”

“TRY YOUR BEST NOT TO DO SOMETHING STUPID!”

“YOUR BIGGEST WEAKNESS IS THE INABILITY TO SEE WHAT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!”

Draco rang until he tripped and couldn’t stop falling. He fell for what seemed like ages to the soundtrack of every shitty thing anyone had ever said to him. It wouldn’t end! Quite honestly, Draco preferred drowning in feathers. He took to shouting, “Get the hell out of my head!” Then he pleaded, “I’ll do anything to make it stop!” When neither of those worked, he tried the only other thing he had acceptance. Then there was only one voice, the only one he wanted to hear:

“The sooner you start actually making choices instead of doing what everyone wants you to do, the sooner you’ll feel like a true Malfoy.”

**.oOo.**

Hermione was lying next to Draco when he woke up. He took her hand and sighed.

_She is here. I am safe. Why are there two cabinets now? Will it be there next time? Will there be a next time? I would very much like to never go through that dream again._

He closed his eyes and focused on his fingers around hers, focused on the bed beneath him and Hermione’s thumb making circles on the side of his wrist.

“I’d never felt that scared before, when I thought I was going to die,” Draco whispered. His throat was scratchy and dry. “Have you ever been terrified like that?”

“Twice,” Hermione said. She didn’t bother to expand upon it, so Draco insisted.

“Tell me when.”

“When I got my scar,” Hermione admitted. “I was in so much pain that I wanted to die. The only reason I didn’t was that I couldn’t unless I knew Harry and Ron were safe. I hated myself for being scared because Harry never seemed afraid, and he stood up against so much more than me. He was always so brave and I couldn’t be that. I was just terrified. I heard her laughing right before I lost consciousness. It’s … It’s an evil sound I just knew was the last thing I was ever going to hear. She wasn’t the kind of person who would let me out alive.”

Draco allowed that to rest for a moment. Someone had tortured Hermione. Someone had Crucioed Hermione! Hermione, who taught him to trust his wand, who taught him to overcome prejudice, who never doubted his capacity to lead … She didn’t deserve that, not in this universe or any other.

“Tell me the second.”

“What’s that?”

“You said there were two. Tell me about the second time you were terrified.”

“Yesterday. Yesterday was the second time.”

_Oh._

“I thought it was best for me to stay away. I thought I was protecting you by not warning you. Looking back, all I remember is wondering what he would do if he knew about me. My first thought was that he he would use me to change his own fate, and he would hurt you to do it.

“Then, I know it sounds strange, but it felt like my chest was falling apart. Something was tugging on my heart, dragging me to a specific place. I followed it and saw you there on the floor, trying to breathe. Voldemort was killing you and I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do and that only scared me more.

“You are so brave, Draco Malfoy, and you were not ready to die. I touched the ribbons and they burned themselves out, burned gold. I couldn’t explain it except to say that every fibre of my being, whatever the hell I’m made of, knew it wasn’t your time to die. Until you were out of that room, out of that mansion, until I could hold you in my arms and not feel you shaking … I was terrified out of my fucking mind.”

_Oh._

Draco allowed that to sink in.

“I don’t want to show you what happened to me because it was the worst moment of my life. I don’t like going back there, Draco. I don’t know if you’d even believe it if you saw it. You’re so loyal to your family.”

“You are my family,” he insisted. “I trust you! Can you just … Can you just trust me once? Tell me who labeled you. I don’t need a lecture on—”

“I’ll show you then,” Hermione said. “Eventually, I promise. I will show you what happened to me and I’m not lecturing you,” Hermione insisted. “I’m not your parents.”

“You are old enough to be,” Draco quipped without thinking. Hermione propped herself up on her elbow and stared at him intently.

“I’m eighteen.”

“You have been eighteen for fifteen years! That is, what, thirty-three? Mother is only forty, Father is forty-two …”

Hermione groaned.

“Oh, God, I’m old!”

“Gross! I kissed an old lady!” Draco teased. Hermione kissed his cheek, then shoved him off the side of the bed and laughed.

“This old lady saved your arse yesterday. Respect your elders, Malfoy!”

They laughed some more as Draco pulled himself back up onto the bed. He flopped face-first onto a pillow and mumbled,

“What do you think the other you is doing now?”

Hermione thought about it.

“I don’t know, really. When I was pulled from them …” She got a wistful look on her face. A little part of Draco broke just then, realizing on some level Hermione still missed Potter and Weasley. It hurt him to know he would never be enough.

“I think I’d probably marry Ron.”

“That’s disgusting,” Draco’s face scrunched up in revulsion.

Hermione shrugged, “Maybe to you, but I like him and we went through war together.”

“You like him?”

“Yeah, I like him.”

“But you said you love me,” Draco challenged. Hermione tilted her head to one side like she hadn’t compared them before.

“Yeah, yeah I do,” she sighed. “It was kind of expected of us and it was easy at first. When you’re young and things are easy, you think it means it’s the way things are supposed to be. Ron and I worked together and that was clearly the universe telling me he was the best option, right?”

“Wrong.”

“Wrong,” Hermione agreed. “But I didn’t know that until I came here, until I saw that you were not at all who I thought you were. Perhaps Ron isn’t who I believed he was either. We probably wouldn’t have made it last. The further away from him I feel, the more I can see what I really wanted to do.”

“What’s that?” Draco asked. “What do you hope the other you will do?”

“I hope she becomes Minister for Magic.”

“Oh, ho!” Draco perked up. “Ambitious, are you? Sure you weren’t in Slytherin, Granger? If anyone was ever to be a Muggle-born exception to the rule, it would be you.” He nudged her shoulder.

“Now that would’ve been a crowning achievement,” Hermione admitted with a smile.

Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked to the door. He stopped halfway through the frame and tapped his fingers against the doorframe. His throat ached, his neck ached, and his teeth were coated in fuzz. Over his shoulder, he said,

“When I say I trust you, it has always meant something else. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

**.oOo.**

It was the middle of July when Hermione told Draco she was ready. She grabbed a large book from the shelf and opened it on the dining room table. Her hands shook like she was nervous. Or perhaps afraid.

“I’ve only done this once, and Blaise didn’t take it well. I don’t know if it will work but … I can’t just tell you because you won’t believe me.”

Draco huffed from across the table.

“You don’t know that!”

“I do know!” Hermione shouted back. Draco held his hands up and took a step backward like Hermione was liable to explode.

“Okay, okay …” he said, gently. That only irked Hermione.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Why am I trying to make sure you’re calm? I dunno, Hermione, perhaps because when you’re angry something either explodes or my skull gets cracked like a fucking egg. There are no Madam Pomfreys here so I am trying to keep myself in one piece.”

“Fine,” Hermione conceded. “I won’t, um, be with you in here. Do you know what a Pensieve is?”

“No, Hermione, I am an unobservant idiot. Of course I know what a Pensieve is! Who do you think I am? Crabbe or Goyle? Why are you stalling?”

“I’m not stalling, Draco. This is hard for me.”

“You never had trouble with your magic before.”

“I wasn’t referring to my magic.” Hermione sighed. “This works sort of like a Pensieve. I can let you see my memories. You’ll be there but you can’t’ interact with anyone but me.”

“You just said you will not be there!” Draco said.

“I said I won’t be there _with you._ ”

“So why does it work like this then? Can you show me another way? Why do you need a book to—“

“Right, let me just consult my Reaper guidebook. Oh, damn, seems the universe forgot to give me one on orientation day!”

Draco had nothing else to say. Hermione had no more warnings to give. She placed on hand on each page, and it was as though Draco was lifted by a Portkey and spat back out into a hallway.

**.oOo.**

He was on the lower level of Malfoy Manor.

_If this is a trick to bring me back …_

“Don’t you dare speak to Draco like that—“

_Mother?_

“Be quiet!”

_Aunty Bella?!_

“The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a serious problem!”

Draco walked toward the shouting, wondering how Aunty Bella escaped Azkaban, wondering what constituted a “serious problem.” He hadn’t seen her in seven years! He entered the drawing room and smiled upon seeing his aunt.

“Aunty Bell—“

He stopped short. Alongside Bellatrix stood Father, Mother, and three guests. “Guests” being a relative term as they were bound to each other with rope, like captives. Aunty Bella was as angry as Draco had ever seen her, holding some kind of sword. Upon further inspection, Draco was confused by the identities of the guests:

There was one swollen and splotchy Harry Potter, Weasley, and … Hermione?

“What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were showing me what happened to you!”

“This is what happened to me,” Hermione looked at him in reply. “Just watch. It’s all you did, anyway,” she said bitterly.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Draco asked. But Hermione seemed to snap back into character as the memory played out like a theatrical production around him.

“The prisoners must be placed in the cellar while I think of what to do,” Aunty Bella told Narcissa.

“This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my—“

“You have no idea the danger we’re in!” Aunty Bella shrieked. Flames burst from her want and burned a hole in the carpet. Mother hesitated a moment before directing Greyback to take the “prisoners” down to the cellar.

_Mother would never allow Greyback into the manor. Since when is Hermione a prisoner? Potter and Weasley look older. Hell, they must be at least seventeen. This is the war, then?_

“Wait!” Aunty Bella exclaimed. “All except for the Mudblood.”

Greyback threw Hermione at Bellatrix’s feet as Weasley shouted,

“No! You can have me! Keep me!”

Aunty Bella slapped him across the face and the sound echoed throughout the room. Draco beamed with pride and satisfaction. He might not have done it himself, but it felt good to watch all the same.

“If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next. Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book.”

_What? If she dies? Aunty Bella wouldn’t kill her, would she? It’s not possible._

His doubt was erased when Bellatrix dragged Hermione to the centre of the room by her hair. The others were dragged away, Weasley shouting for her the whole way. Aunty Bella kicked Hermione in the ribs and asked,

“Where did you get the sword?”

Hermione clenched her teeth and said nothing. Draco almost chuckled because, yes, that was exactly the Hermione he knew.

“Ah, a fighter! You don’t want to make this fun for me, filth,” Bellatrix warned. When Hermione rolled her head to the side in refusal to answer, she clenched her fists, knowing what was to come.

“ _Crucio!_ ”

Hermione’s back arced off the floor as she writhed in pain.

“Where did you get the sword?!” Bellatrix shouted.

“We found it!” Hermione shouted. Just before Aunty Bella raised her wand again, Draco watched himself walk through the door. He was taller, thinner, and looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. Draco could have cried in relief when Hermione’s memory of him said,

“I know her and she can’t lie. If she says they found it—“

“Shut up, nephew! Or I swear I’ll put you on the ground next to her!”

The other Draco’s mouth snapped shut and he took a step backward. Bellatrix raised her wand again.

“ _Crucio!_ ”

Hermione screamed. Not like Draco had heard her sound before. She wasn’t crying in anger or frustration, but agonized wailing of pure pain. It reminded him of Diggory’s father and Draco shouted at himself.

“Do something!” But the other Draco couldn’t hear. Not that it would have mattered. “Anything! You fucking coward! Do you really believe Mother would allow you to be tortured! You have to do something!”

Predictably, he did nothing. When Hermione’s head lolled to the other side, she made eye contact with him. All this Memory!Draco could do was stare back. Then Hermione closed her eyes and tears fell, like some part of her had held onto belief that Draco might help. That he might, just this once, do the noble thing. This Draco was, as his father liked to say,

“A disappointment in many areas.”

“Stop!” Draco shouted.

Everything went still and Hermione went silent. Time stopped. Draco stepped closer to the memory version of himself and asked,

“What happened to you?”

That Draco snapped out of character and pulled up his left sleeve. Draco took a stunned step back, disbelief crossing his face as this new Draco returned to his part in this play. He had the Mark. What in Merlin’s name would have caused him to take it? Draco knew his own face well enough to see he didn’t want to be a Death Eater. There was shame in his eyes. He really was impossibly thin, with circles beneath his eyes so dark someone may well have punched him. Draco wanted to.

The memory resumed.

“You’re lying, you filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth!”

Hermione shook her head and cried, “We found it! We found it! It’s fake!”

“How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty little Goblin in the cellar help you?!”

“We only met him tonight!” she said between screams.

“ _Crucio!_ ”

“We’ve never been inside your vault! It’s just a copy.”

“A copy?” screeched Bellatrix. “Oh, a likely story!”

Father directed Draco to grab the Goblin from the cellar to confirm Hermione’s account. Not that it mattered because Hermione was still being tortured on his fucking floor in his fucking house.

“Stupefy!” Bellatrix shouted. Hermione went completely still. Bellatrix knelt overtop of her, and somehow Draco could still make out the fear in Hermione’s eyes. Bellatrix waved a hand over Hermione saying,

“But not the head. I want to hear you scream. Tell me, what else did you take?!”

Hermione shouted, “NOTHING!” in reply.

“ _Crucio!_ Tell me the truth or I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!”

Hermione no longer appeared to have the energy to scream, to cry out in pain. She just sobbed quietly, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Bellatrix pushed Hermione’s head around, so her left cheek was flush against the floor.

“Well, I always keep my promises,” Bellatrix said as she gripped the silver dagger. Draco lunged forward, only to fall right through the both of them. He turned around, still on his arse, to watch as his Aunty Bella started to carve letters into Hermione’s left forearm.

Draco didn’t need to lean any closer, he knew what it would say. Hermione’s eyes opened for a moment as she broke character and groaned.

“It’s okay, I didn’t want to watch either.”

Draco glanced up at himself from where he sat, as Aunty Bella worked diligently on the “b.”

“So this is how you remembered me.”

It wasn’t a question so Hermione didn’t answer.

_This is what you saw in me. The bystander, the Death Eater, the frightened little Malfoy boy with everything to lose. This is why you didn’t talk to me for years._

Aunty Bella laughed as she finished up the “d,” and Hermione lost consciousness seconds later. Draco was pulled out of his home and back into the villa across the table from Hermione.

**.oOo.**

She slammed the book shut and slumped onto the table.

“Just so we’re clear, I am never doing that again.”

“My family did this to you.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Hermione asked. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That wasn’t you.”

“I am sorry you had to show it to me,” Draco admitted. “Because I know, I know I would not have believed you. I hate that you were right. That’s not the Bella I remember.”

“It’s not the Bellatrix you knew.” Hermione looked like she had something else to say, but seemed hesitant to continue. She bit down on her thumbnail for a few moments.

“Voldemort’s real name is Tom Riddle.”

“Tom Riddle?” Draco asked. “Certainly makes him sound less formidable. Bit presumptuous, calling himself ‘Lord’ anything, wait—did you say _Tom_ Riddle?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow in affirmation.

“No!” Draco exclaimed. “He can’t be. He is Tom? Dumbledore didn’t bother to mention that the only living person with a Reaper is LORD VOLDEMORT?!”

“Yes, Lord Voldemort has a Reaper.”

“Who?”

“Do you remember what Headmaster Dumbledore said about the different kinds of Reapers? The ones who take physical form are untethered. They present themselves as a friend, a mentor, _a follower_. Tell me, Draco, who is Lord Voldemort’s most ardent supporter?”

_No._

_It can’t be._

“Why are you telling me this?” Draco asked. Hermione looked him in the eyes and said,

“Because I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an experimental chapter. Let me know if I missed the mark; I'm a bit out of practice. Comments and criticism are always appreciated.


	20. XIX: "Choosing a Side"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco yells at his mom, Blaise reveals his father's name, Hannah Abbott is a cinnamon roll, and Draco saves a life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I'm like, "I have to keep this chapter under 5,000 words." This time, for some reason, it ended up barely hitting 3,000. I hope you enjoy this shorter chapter! It's kind of dark, kind of exasperating, but Blaise's father is officially revealed so that's kind of cool. Oh, and Ron makes a cameo. OH! And if you're interested in being a beta for these later chapters, please hit me up on [Tumblr.](http://queenofstarkness.tumblr.com)

It was like the world stopped moving. Everything suddenly made sense, but Draco felt lied to, cheated, and somehow even more alone.

“Aunt Bella is a Reaper?”

Hermione nodded slowly and Draco asked,

“That’s good, right? If I can convince her to fight for our side, maybe we can stop Voldemort without a war.”

Hermione looked exasperated.

“Bellatrix would rather torture you than disappoint Voldemort!”

“But why?” Draco asked, shouting the question at Hermione in desperation. “That was there, she could be different here. I am different here!”

“Bellatrix and Voldemort are …” Hermione trailed off. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair and nervously tapped her fingers on the table before settling on the word, “close.”

“Close how?” Draco asked. Hermione continued to squirm.

“Close enough to put him over her family.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Draco observed. Then it hit him and he rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes to prevent those thoughts from progressing any further. “Oh! Oh, God. Is my aunt fucking Lord Voldemort?”

Hermione couldn’t meet his eyes and that was a good enough answer.

“You have to Obliviate these images out of my head!”

**.oOo.**

Narcissa Malfoy came to visit in the middle of August. She placed several textbooks on the table and turned to face her son, looking fabulous as ever. Wearing her hair in an elaborate braid and a breezy summer dress, the only sign of anything amiss was a bruise on her right cheekbone. It appeared someone had backhanded her and Draco balled his hands into fists. Through gritted teeth he asked,

“What happened to you?”

“What do you—Oh! I forgot to cover it up this morning,” she lamented after catching her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. “So careless these days…”

“Mother,” Draco asked again, “who hit you?”

“You know the answer,” she scolded.

“Why?”

“I defended your father against accusations of incompetence. This is nothing, Draco. I am fine. Hermione needs to leave and I will tell you the rest,” Mother insisted.

Hermione crossed her arms defiantly but Draco demanded she go. Hermione stalked away like they hadn’t been at each other’s sides the past two months. Though both of them secretly wanted to be rid of each other for awhile.

Mother took a seat at the dining room table and sighed. Her shoulders slumped and she let her face fall to her hands. Draco had never seen her vulnerable, like life finally caught up with Narcissa Malfoy. Gone was the fearsome witch who took on twelve Ministry raiders, who only two months ago lied to Lord Voldemort himself. Mother was simply trying to survive.

“Your father still believes we can make our way back into the Dark Lord’s favour. Before He was defeated, the only people closer to the Dark Lord were Bella and Severus. We did great things with that power.”

“You killed people,” Draco accused.

“People who deserved to die, yes, we did. It was war, mon ange, it was brutal and it was hateful for ten long years. But we were right, and we are still right—“

“You are wrong!” Draco shouted at her. “You were wrong! You are still wrong! You and Father always told me that if I demand respect people will give it to me. Explain to me, Mother, why you are willing to follow a man who tried to kill me!”

“Because we have to survive!” Narcissa shouted back. She placed a hand over her mouth, stunned and disappointed to have lost her composed veneer. “The Dark Lord has returned, and everyone in his way will perish. That is not a question, Draco. Whether you believe we are right or wrong, if you get in his way you will die. I love you too much to watch that happen.”

_And I love you too much to let Voldemort treat you like a house-elf._

_Are they trying to protect me from the inevitable? I have less than three years left. Perhaps it is time I start taking control of my future._

“You brought me into this war. You and Father and every other Death Eater who ever supported Voldemort. I promise you that Lord Voldemort will pay for laying a hand on you. He will pay for threatening innocent people! For killing innocent people!”

“You have been spending too much time with that Hannah girl,” Mother chastised. “Astoria Greengrass is only a couple years below you, and her parents—“

“Mother, I am not in love with Hannah. I do not want her or Astoria or Pans! Can I just be a teenager for five minutes? I don’t want to worry about you or Father or dying, which you have never allowed me to forget!” Draco sighed as all the fight left him. “I didn’t ask for this. All of it, any of it.”

_And I love Hermione, but something tells me I best leave that bit out. No one needs to know that._

“But you are older now, and given the current situation we need to be more practical.”

“Practical?” Draco asked. “Hannah Abbot is my friend and you all know I am in love with Blaise. How can you expect me to fight for people who want to take both of them away from me?”

“We do what it takes to survive, Draco!” Narcissa said. She repeated it almost like a mantra.

“I rejected Blaise because he makes me weak, just as Father has done to you! I am practical. I am surviving. I am doing everything you asked of me.”

“Yet Blaise gave you his father’s ring,” Mother said with curiosity. Draco raised an eyebrow and looked down at his hand, astonished.

“It was his father’s?”

“Yes.”

“Blaise never told me about him.”

“Well it is not a point of pride. Mon destin, his mother really loved his father. Much like your father and I, that woman looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky. They were together for ten years. Eight of them during the war where he ….” Narcissa trailed off.

“Where he what?” Draco asked, suddenly very curious.

“That is a question for Blaise, my son.”

_My son. Just like Father. Do this, my son. Not like that, my son. You failed, my son._

“May I just ask one more question?”

“Of course, Draco.”

“Will you protect me when he tries to kill me again?” Draco asked. His mother looked hurt by the question.

“You and your father are the most important things in my life. I would give up all our houses, our money, and our status to keep you safe. If the Dark Lord tries to take either of you away from me, he becomes my enemy.

“We always though having a Reaper was a sign you would stand next to the Dark Lord as his top lieutenant and that you would die fighting for him. We were naively proud and perhaps we were wrong to focus on your fate as much as we did. I admit it, your father and I were wrong and I am so sorry, Draco if we ever made you feel like you did not have something to live for.”

“I do,” Draco said, “but you didn’t give it to me. Hermione did.”

Narcissa nodded, sullen.

“I am bending,” she admitted, “but I know you never will. To prove it …”

Mother offered Draco a small white box. Draco unceremoniously flung the top off and stared. He’d forgotten it was that time. Somehow, when he wanted most to be rid of responsibility, more found its way to him. Inside the box was a small green badge lined in silver, with a snake wrapped around the stem of a capital ‘P’.

“You are their leader now, and I am so proud of you.”

**.oOo.**

Draco ducked back into their compartment on the Hogwarts Express after his Prefect patrol was finished. He looked around and asked,

“Where’s Pans?”

“With Hannah,” Blaise answered. “It’s just been me and Hermione here, I assume,” Blaise replied. “Quite nice, actually. Rarely have time to myself now that Theo’s between girlfriends and Dean won’t shut up about Ginny Weasley.”

“Hermione is not here,” Draco replied. “Two months we spent together! She is so overbearing sometimes. She is wicked smart, but there are times I want her to off me herself just so I would no longer have to listen to her lectures about the rights of house-elves.”

“That’s not funny,” Blaise insisted. “It isn’t funny because you still haven’t told me how much time you have left.”

“Technically, we don’t know,” Draco said, trying to dodge the question. He knew it wouldn’t work.

“You have a guess. A good one.”

When Draco refused to answer, Blaise put down his book and moved to the other side of the compartment to sit next to him. Draco hadn’t told Blaise, but his feelings were exactly the same as they were this time last year. He supposed their boundaries had changed, but even that was a sort of fanciful notion. Draco still curled into Blaise’s side and Blaise still wrapped his arm around Draco’s shoulders.

“You said this war kills you and that it is more important than me. You owe it to me, Draco. You owe it to me to tell me so I can be …” Blaise swallowed thickly, “prepared.”

“Really, Blaise?” Draco asked, acid in his tone. “What? Do you want to start some demented countdown? The ‘Days ‘Til My Best Friend Dies’ clock?”

Blaise didn’t reply. He had nothing to say in response to what Draco knew was a baseless accusation. He only thought it’d be easier to say if Blaise was angry at him. It wasn’t.

“Less than three years.”

The only sign Blaise heard was his arm tightening around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Being with him was so easy. Conversely, Hermione was untamable and restless and determined. She was hard and strong, and made Draco want to be the same. How cruel of the universe to give him two proper friends, almost-lovers, only to take them away.

To change the subject, Draco pulled the ring off his finger and asked, “Is this your father’s?”

“Yeah,” Blaise sighed. He closed his book, sensing a long conversation ahead. “My mother gave it to me before third year. She said I should have something of his. She explained things to me.”

When Blaise didn’t expound upon that, Draco asked, “What things?”

“She loved him. It is strange to think of my mother loving anyone. She tries to care for me but isn’t very good at it. Politics forced my parents apart. They were together through most of the war, even though they fought on opposite sides. They finally called it off in early 1978. He never remarried and she’s on husband #7.”

Blaise said it impartially, but Draco could tell he was a little resentful. Almost as though he wondered why they couldn’t make it last just a few more years. Perhaps then Blaise would be sitting there with a happy mother, a present father, and … well maybe he wouldn’t need Draco as much. Draco, selfishly, did not take well to that notion. Draco didn’t want to ask the question, and Blaise knew him so well that he didn’t have to.

“He doesn’t know about me.”

Draco was silent for several moments.

“His name is Kingsley,” Blaise finally admitted. “My mum thought people would overlook what my father did. Now that the Dark Lord has returned, however, she doesn’t know how much longer I will be able to stay.”

“You-you know about him?!” Draco sputtered. Blaise laughed.

“I know, and Pans was staying with me so she knows. Your mother cannot keep a secret from mine. Plus, it’s hard not to figure it out when a bunch of Death Eaters start heading to Malfoy Manor like it’s Madam Malkin’s and someone told them black cloaks were on sale.”

“Well what does it matter? Why wouldn’t you be here with us?”

Blaise looked at Draco like he had gone ‘round the bend.

“I’m gay and my father’s a blood traitor. How long do you think the Dark Lord will let me stay around?”

**.oOo.**

Draco had to tell Hannah. Draco never kept a secret from her, outside of Hermione, and it was killing him. He lasted two weeks at the beginning of the year before it became unbearable. One day in the Slytherin common room, Hannah continued what seemed like her constant Potter-bashing diatribe.

“Dad is relocating because of Potter’s lies. Mum convinced my dad to move back to America while she stays here to work at the Ministry. So stupid,” Hannah snapped.

Draco put down his quill, though Hannah’s scribbling only intensified.

“He is not lying.”

“How would you know?”

“I just know.”

Draco stared at her until she looked up. He raised his eyebrows and repeated,

“I know.”

“Whatever,” Hannah muttered. She continued to colour something until the end broke off her pencil. “Dammit!” she shouted and angrily threw it on the table. Hermione, perched on one arm of Draco’s chair, said,

“She is looking for someone to blame.”

“It is not Potter’s fault,” Draco said to the both of them.

“Why not?!” Hannah shouted. Some of the other Slytherins turned to look as she continued.

“Say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back, say it’s all true, what did Harry Potter do about it? Nothing! He did nothing! Dumbledore made all of us praise him for bringing the body back but how about keeping Cedric alive, huh? Why didn’t he do that?

“Sure, ‘The Chosen One’ escapes like he always does, but everyone around him dies!”

“Hang on, that’s not fair!” Hermione interjected, but Hannah couldn’t hear her.

“We were so proud of Cedric. Nobody expected a Hufflepuff champion and he did so well! He won! Gryffindors are always so brave when it comes to themselves, but protecting others is always second to the greater good.”

“Hear, hear!” Theo shouted from across the room.

“That is not fair,” Hermione said, standing up. She looked at Draco and demanded he defend her House. Draco ignored her. Hermione put her hands on her hips and got that look on her face Draco had come to understand meant, “ _I am so disappointed in you.”_ He asked Hannah,

“What would you have done differently?”

“How do you mean?”

“If you were there, wherever Potter was ambushed by the Dark Lord, what would you have done to save Cedric?”

“Well I don’t … I … I …” Hannah was at a loss for words.

“Exactly,” Draco shot a pointed glance at Hermione before telling Hannah, “If you want someone to blame, look at who killed him. I’ve seen Voldemort,” Draco confided. Hannah’s mouth fell open. “He … He …” Draco trailed off. “Violent and powerful, that is what he is. Hell if I know how Potter escaped. Barely managed it myself.”

“You mean it?” Hannah whispered. “You really saw him?”

“He tried to kill me,” Draco confirmed. He touched his neck again as he remembered the feeling of silk ribbons tightening around his throat.

Hannah clutched her sketchbook to her chest and stared intently at the table. She shifted a bit, suddenly very uncomfortable. When she finally spoke again her voice was very small.

“So I almost lost you, too?”

**.oOo.**

Draco heard about the manor raid at dinner in late October. Theo heard from Daphne who heard from Gupta who heard from someone who heard from someone who heard from their parents. Theo lowered his voice to deliver the news.

“Later this week, the Ministry is planning a raid on the manor.”

Draco turned to him, concerned.

“They cannot be serious. They have to know who is there.”

“Is it Him?” Theo asked. Draco leveled him with a glare that all but confirmed it. Theo shifted awkwardly and continued.

“The Ministry is losing staff by the dozens, most of them transferring to positions abroad. They are scooping the bottom of the barrel for employees, but they are determined. Minister Fudge is in denial, but his ranks aren’t. What are your parents going to do?”

“Watch as he kills them, I expect,” Draco admitted. “Wait! You said they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel?”

“I think so, yeah,” Theo admitted. “It’s hard trying to piece it all together. But that’s what I think.”

Draco nodded.

“Cover for me,” he insisted as he stood up and walked rather quickly over to the Gryffindor dining table. The closer he got, the more eyes he could feel on his back. Even the professors were staring by the time he stood behind Ron Weasley.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Potter asked disdainfully.

“I need to speak with Weasley.”

“Fat chance of that, you son of a—“ Ron began, but Draco cut him off.

“Oh, God, you great prat, will you get your head out of your arse for two minutes?!”

“Forget it,” Ron said with a wave of his hand.

_A blood traitor does not get to dismiss me like that._

Draco balled his hands into fists and clenched his teeth. He took a deep breath and said,

“If you do not follow me outside, I will take fifty points from Gryffindor.”

“You wouldn’t!” Weasley sneered. Draco gave just as good as he got.

“Try me,” he dared.

…

Weasley blinked first. He followed Draco into the castle entryway and rounded on him.

“What are you playing at?”

“do you believe Potter?”

Ron was thrown off by the question so Draco repeated it.

“Do you believe Voldemort has returned?”

“Of course I do. I trust him.”

“Good,” Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “You must go to the Owlery straightaway and tell your father not to go on the Ministry raid at the manor. Tell him to fake an illness or blame it on paperwork, but he cannot go to the manor.”

Ron looked at him, if possible, with even more contempt.

“You won’t get my father fired from his job, Malfoy.”

Draco almost laughed. It was almost funny. There he was trying to save Ron’s father from death, and Ron would send it all to hell just to have the last word. He decided to spell it out delicately.

“Where do you believe the Dark Lord is hiding?” Draco asked.

“Out in the woods or in some Death Eater house, I expect.”

So stupid! Someone with that much power, who desires that much wealth, does not slum in the woods or the homes of lesser men.

“You think the Dark Lord would hid out in a Death Eater house? Which Death Eater has the best home, Weasley?”

“I wouldn’t know, Malfoy. ‘Blood traitors’ don’t get invited to your parties.”

“For Merlin’s sake, put the pieces together, Weasley!” Draco shouted, exasperated. “I am telling you if your father goes into my home that there is someone there who will make sure he does not get out alive!”

“Why should I believe you?!” Weasley shouted back.

“Because while I may hate you, I do not hate him. He … He never raised his wand to me. I think he is a decent person and would very much like to not see him perish at the hands of the person currently in my house!”

Ron was at the Owlery in minutes. When his classmates asked what that was about, he simply said,

“Choosing a side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a weird mishmash of things I needed to happen before Umbridge starts to Umbridge. And Draco realizing his aunt is banging Lord Voldemort is a funny visual in my head. Also, I feel like Voldemort probably doesn't consider Narcissa a true Death Eather since she's not Marked. That's why he treats her the way he does ... Almost as though she's the best of the disposables. #NarcissaDeservesBetter I hope you enjoyed that little ride and hope to have more up v soon.


	21. XX: Hugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No good deed goes unpunished. Dumbledore is still shady, Snape is still Draco's favourite professor, and Blaise Zabini deserves to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After publishing the last chapter I decided to cover all seven books. The ending I planned just wasn't good enough. There are thirty chapters now and perhaps more to come. I know this hasn't felt much like a Dramione story so far, and that was unintentional. Blaise being this important was 100% accidental. My first couple outlines never mentioned him, yet here we are. Hopefully this chapter works as the final turning point from "messy weird love triangle" to focusing on the intended pair. Also, I'm still beta-less so please forgive any spelling/grammar errors.

Draco was not a hugger.

Touches, he liked; feeling the presence of other people was nice. It grounded him. Somewhat of a holdover trait from those years Hermione controlled when she could and could not be felt. Draco always enjoyed Blaise’s hugs, but he was always an exception to Draco’s rules. Blaise had been holding Draco up since he was five. Hugs were reserved for Blaise and Hannah. And Hermione. Well, also Pans if she was having a bad day.

Fine, Draco Malfoy liked hugs! It’s freezing in the dungeons and hugs are warm. Regardless, there was nothing to prepare him for the redheaded blur that nearly knocked him off his feet when he entered the Great Hall for breakfast. Everyone stared as Ginny Weasley pulled Draco in a hug.

“Get off me!” Draco shouted, trying to push her away to no avail. She only held on tight and said,

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Draco asked, still very much aware of the seventy-or-so pairs of eyes trained on them.

In lieu of an answer, Ginny Weasley dragged him over to the Gryffindor table, leaving behind a bewildered Theo and Pansy. The twins stabbed their food a little too forcefully, looking like children being forced to apologize for something they weren’t sorry for. Ron Weasley seemed to consider stabbing Draco with the butter knife.

“Come on, Gin,” Ron said. “Do we really—“

“Tell him,” she demanded. She sounded a bit like Hermione, bloody Gryffindors. When no one spoke up, Potter filled in the details.

“Mr. Weasley called in sick to the Ministry yesterday with a mild case of Spattergroit, so he was not able to go to the raid on Malfoy Manor. The Ministry sent six wizards, all of whom are missing and presumed dead.”

“You saved our father’s life!” Ginny shouted. She gave him another hug and he awkwardly patted her shoulder.

“Yeah, thanks,” the twins grumbled at the same time Weasley mumbled, “Yeah, thanks you no-good sack off—“

“Ron!” Ginny exclaimed, thwacking her brother over the head. Draco looked up and down the Gryffindor table, suddenly very uneasy.

“You didn’t … You didn’t tell people, did you?” Draco asked worriedly. The twins grinned mischievously.

“Only the whole House,” one of them said.

Draco fell forward very suddenly and gripped the edge of the table. He closed his eyes and grimaced as he tried and failed to black out the remnants of his nightmare that came back unfiltered.

_Blood traitors are next to Mudblood in my book. There is too much resting on your shoulders! You’ve been spending too much time with that Hannah girl. We could lose everything! Drive him closer to those Muggle-loving whorebrains. You have always been weaker than I ever was!_

“What have you done?” Draco groaned.

“Malfoy?” Ginny asked, actual concern in her voice. “Are you okay?” Draco shrugged her off and angrily said,

“I told you in secret, Weasley. In confidence! You have no idea what will happen to me next time I set foot in the manor. I hugged a blood traitor. I saved a blood traitor! Whatever you think my father will do to me, double it and you have reality.

“Fuck the lot of you!” Draco shouted. “And do not ever expect me to do something like that again!”

Draco stormed back to the Slytherin table unaware Potter had followed. Just before Draco took his seat next to Blaise, Potter placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder to spin him around.

“Touch me again, Potter, and Weasel-bee will be picking the remaining pieces of you up off the floor.”

“Look, no one will tell your father,” Harry said dismissively.

“You are so stupid. Do you think I am half as worried about my father as I am … Forget it. Even when I do something nice for you, you have to go and fuck me over! I cannot win with you! Given that my life just got much worse thanks to your no-good ginger blood-traitor friends, kindly fuck off and leave me to my muffins!”

Potter started to say something but Blaise stood up. He was a couple inches taller than the two of them, suddenly looking like the adult in the conversation. Potter fell silent and Blaise said,

“I believe Draco told you to leave.”

Draco could’ve kissed him. Their fracas in third year was the only time he’d taken a side in anything. Standing up to Potter, to risk alienating Gryffindors, to risk alienating Dean Thomas … Draco never expected that of him.

Blaise knew. They wanted the same thing and that was when Draco realized the rest of his life would be like this. A never-ending parade of what-ifs followed by a maelstrom of if-onlys. _If only I didn’t have to die._ Draco chose Hermione and this was the consequence.

“Professor Dumbledore needs to see you in his office. That’s what I came to tell you.” Potter was surprisingly not upset, and that only angered Draco even more. He started to walk away but yelled over his shoulder, “Password’s ‘parsnip’!”

Draco groaned and swiped three muffins from the table. He took an angry bite from the blueberry one. Draco placed a hand on Blaise’s shoulder and said,

“Thank you.”

Then he left.

**.oOo.**

Headmaster Dumbledore was troubled. Not outwardly. He put on a good show, but Draco had seen enough silently frightened people in his life to know. The colourful office still whirred with energy, but the headmaster sagged just the slightest bit behind his desk. His eyes no longer twinkled behind half-moon spectacles, instead they focused on Draco in a rather perplexing manner.

“Biscuit?” Dumbledore offered Draco a tin as he sat down. Draco declined and Hermione took her place behind him. “Is Miss Granger present?”

Draco nodded and Dumbledore sighed. He seemed to age years in a matter of moments.

“Good, good. Master Malfoy, I do apologize for being rather distant during your years here. I have some empathy for the struggles you have faced, certainly over the two previous terms. I was preoccupied with young Mister Potter and overlooked some of your predicaments.”

_Empathy? What empathy?_

_Dumbledore has been preoccupied with Harry Potter. Who isn’t? Even Hermione is preoccupied with him more than ever. All I’ve done was nearly lose my Reaper to a Basilisk, bring shame upon my family, fall in love, play damsel in distress for a Quidditch phenomenon, break my friend’s heart, fall in love again, oh and nearly get killed by Lord Voldemort. But as long as I keep getting top marks no one seems to care._

“I believe my circumstances are about to change. There is some information I have kept from you that, now Lord Voldemort has returned, I feel you need to know.”

Draco tilted his head to one side and smirked.

“I know he has a Reaper.”

If Professor Dumbledore was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“You are clever,” he replied. Hermione wrapped her hands around Draco’s shoulders in an attempt to soothe him. It didn’t work, but he appreciated the gesture.

“To the point, then! I am afraid there is no precedent for two reapers appearing simultaneously.”

“One or two, what does it matter?” Draco snapped. Headmaster Dumbledore calmly replied,

“It matters a great deal.”

Fuck him and his carefully-constructed pretense. One apology for three years of apathy and sticking Draco at the bottom of the Black Lake was less than sufficient. Hermione had done more to help Draco than any professor, Dumbledore among them. His hedging and mild contrition were insulting.

Hermione threaded her fingers through Draco’s hair, finally finding something to calm him. A good thing, because the vitriol on the tip of his tongue could very well get him expelled. He giggled, yes, _giggled_ , because of how it must look to Headmaster Dumbledore. Small pieces of his hair seeming to move of their own accord. Dumbledore gave no indication that he noticed.

“There has never been more than one Reaper at a time; they often appear with centuries between them. The only conclusion I am able to draw is that Miss Granger is only here because something went wrong.”

Draco blinked.

“Something went wrong?” he repeated.

“Tom Riddle distorted his destiny, along with a great many other things. Mrs. Lestrange did nothing to stop him and the universe needed to compensate.”

“You are saying I am … That Hermione is … A fix?”

“More like reciprocity,” Dumbledore amended.

“So I wasn’t planned, I wasn’t chosen, I was just … Convenient?!” Draco’s voice rose to a shout, but Dumbledore still remained irritatingly calm.

“You were chosen, Draco. Can’t you see? The universe was wrong. Of everyone in the world, it chose you to set things right. There needed to be someone strong enough to push back on Voldemort’s beliefs so that even his followers will be forced to listen.”

“More responsibility! That is all I ever get from you people,” Draco whined. “I still do not understand why this matters.”

“It matters because your destinies are inseparable. It also means your deaths are inseparable.”

The headmaster paused to allow his words to sink in. Hermione’s fingers stilled before he continued.

“Where there is hope for Harry Potter, I am afraid that, unless I am wrong, there is no hope for your survival once Voldemort is gone.”

“We guessed I have about two-and-a-half years left,” Draco admitted. Headmaster Dumbledore only seemed saddened by that. “If I die right now, would I take him with me?”

“NO!” Dumbledore rushed to clarify. Draco took a bite from one of his muffins to distract himself from the way Hermione’s hands had moved to his shoulders. Her fingernails nearly dug through his robe. “You would take part of him with you. His soul has been torn into many pieces. Only once he is mortal can he be fully stopped. You would save no one by dying now.”

Draco nodded, satisfied. Then Dumbledore gave him the actual bad news.

“I fear Lord Voldemort will try to use your Reaper against you. Harry Potter is taking Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape and I would like for you to join him.”

**.oOo.**

Draco had finished all three muffins by the time he was back in the boys’ dormitory. Everyone else was still at breakfast so he shut the door and waited. Hermione was doing her best to keep her emotions in check, but she was about to—

“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!” she shouted. Hermione continued before Draco could answer. “We talked about it this summer! We discussed it and you’d throw it all away! ‘If I died now?’ What the hell kind of question is that?! You would leave your friends here alone? You would leave Blaise here alone?!”

“I wasn’t thinking about Blaise!” Draco shouted back.

“Then who were you thinking about?!”

“My mother!” Draco answered much louder than necessary. Hermione’s mouth snapped shut. Draco sighed. “I do not know what is happening to her, but I can guess. Father can only do so much, but he is the idiot who invited Voldemort into our home. This is his fault.”

“We talked about this, Draco,” Hermione said again. Quieter this time. “They deserve this time with you.” She pressed her hand to the centre of Draco’s chest and Draco placed his hand on top of hers. They stayed like that for a minute, Draco’s heartbeat the only indication time was moving forward.

_This is her way of saying, “I trust you.”_

Draco kicked at the carpet, unable to meet Hermione’s gaze. They had spoken about several things over the summer, given that they hadn’t much else to do. After ten years, Draco was comfortable talking about his own death like an abstract thing. A defined endpoint still far enough away to be considered distant.

It didn’t feel all that distant anymore.

“I have to get ready for Quidditch practice,” Draco said, ending the conversation. To his surprise, Hermione nodded and made to leave. She turned around and asked,

“Did you remember to pack the—“

“Yeah,” Draco nodded.

“Okay,” Hermione nodded before walking through the door.

**.oOo.**

Practice was awful. Cassius Warrington was captain since Flint had finally graduated, and Draco selfishly found himself grateful he didn’t have to lead the team. He only wanted to sit on his broom and find the Snitch. It was a gloomy day and raindrops pelted Draco’s goggles faster than he could wipe them away. He saw the Snitch contrasted against the grey sky, zoomed toward it on his Firebolt, and caught it!

Then he fell off his broom.

The drop was only a few yards and his shoulder took the brunt of it. Draco groaned and flung his goggles off into the grass. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes as raindrops bounced onto then off from his face. The choruses of “Malfoy, are you alright?!” were distant, like he was hearing them from the opposite end of a tunnel.

When he opened his eyes, Crabbe and Goyle stood over him clutching their bats as Graham Montague held onto Draco’s broom. Someone asked again if he was alright and Draco couldn’t figure out who it was. He smiled and said,

“Just lost my grip.”

**.oOo.**

They had double-Potions with the Gryffindors on Monday. Double-anything with Gryffindor was a pain, but Draco particularly hated having to share his favourite class with his least-favourite people.

Draco hated Ron Weasley. He had this inferiority complex about him Draco would never understand. Hermione said it was about being the sixth of six boys in his family. She thought he felt like a disappointment.

_I’ve been a disappointment my entire life, but I am not half as bitter about it._

Draco concentrated on his Draught of Peace, helping Theo along as well. The whole class jumped as a large boom reverberated throughout the classroom. Seamus Finegan could hardly be seen through the smoke emitting from his cauldron.

“Mr. Finegan, if you would be so kind as to make sure you only blow yourself up, please do not consign your classmates to the same fate,” snapped Professor Snape. Most of the Slytherins chuckled, but Draco blocked them out.

_Seven stirs clockwise._

_Seven stirs anti-clockwise._

_Hellebore … Hellebore …_

Draco scooped the small vial of hellebore syrup from the table and delicately tipped seven drops into his solution. He lowered the flame and watched as the final minutes of class ticked by.

Professor Snape laughed derisively at Longbottom’s attempt before spilling the contents of Potter’s cauldron onto the floor.

“Our resident celebrity forgot to add syrup of hellebore. A zero for the day, Potter,” Snape said before moving on. Potter looked to be fuming but he was also unsurprised. Draco was practically bouncing on his toes by the time Professor Snape approached Theo’s cauldron.

“Noticeable improvement, Knott. Ten points to Slytherin for exhibiting an ability to learn.” His continued disdain for Neville Longbottom was evident in his tone, but Draco didn’t care.

Snape bent over Draco’s work and smiled at the silver vapors emitting from the cauldron. As if to torture Draco, he took an exceptionally long time to study the mixture. The corners of his mouth twitched upward in what might have been a smile.

“Excellent work, Master Malfoy!” Professor Snape proclaimed. He bottled some of the mixture for his stores and Draco couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Ten points to Slytherin. Five points from Gryffindor for Potter’s abhorrent concoction. Five points from Gryffindor as recompense for Finegan’s eyebrows. Oh! Yes, and another ten points to Slytherin because Zabini’s birthday is Wednesday.”

**.oOo.**

November 1st was Blaise’s sixteenth birthday.

As for all Slytherins, Draco arranged some house-elves in the kitchen to make a cake for the occasion. (He even paid them a few Galleons at Hermione’s insistence.) Blaise was made to sit on one of the chairs by the fire with one of those stupid Muggle party hats. Draco couldn’t resist laughing when he saw the green streamers pouring out from the top.

Draco gathered all the students in the common room after dinner. He stood on top of one of the tables, raised his arms to conduct a loud and obnoxious rendition of “Happy Birthday.” By the time they were finished, Blaise was sufficiently embarrassed. He blew out the candles on his cake then Pans handed him the present everyone who wasn’t Draco had pooled to get. She told him to open it later, which Draco found a bit strange.

Blaise received hugs from all the sixth-years as the rest of the House dispersed. Pans wished him a happy birthday before reminding him she needed help with her Transfiguration homework. He shyly confirmed to Theo that Dean Thomas did get him a present. Theo nudged his shoulder and said, “I’m sure he did,” in a tone that made Draco curious as to what, exactly, he was implying.

“Your present is upstairs in my trunk,” Draco mentioned. (Okay, a little possessively because how the hell did Theo know something about Blaise that Draco didn’t?) He nodded toward the stairs, indicating Blaise should follow him up to their dormitory. Theo whistled after them and Blaise shouted back at him, to shut up. He smiled as he said it.

He closed the door behind him and muttered, “Colloportus.” Blaise was still smiling when he turned around, and Draco was suddenly so nervous his heart might have stopped beating.

_What if he doesn’t like it?_

Draco nodded toward the bed and said, “Sit.”

Blaise frowned at being commanded, but obliged. Draco dug the rectangular box from his trunk and turned to face Blaise, whose eyes gravitated to the gift Draco hugged to his chest. He smiled fondly at the dancing snowmen on the wrapping.

“Found it in a spare room,” Draco grumbled.

“The rest of the House thinks you brought me up here to give me a different sort of present,” Blaise teased. Draco groaned.

“You know I’m not—“

“I know,” Blaise cut him off. “But I am your best friend and that means I get to embarrass the shit out of you. Especially on my birthday.” He smiled when Draco relaxed a bit.

“Do you hate Hermione?” Draco asked.

“Do I have to answer to get my present?”

He was met with silence. Of course he had to answer because he had to understand. Blaise sighed.

I don’t hate her,” he said before holding out one expectant hand.

“Why?”

Another sigh.

“I suppose I knew we’d need to talk about it eventually. Pans had the same question. I can’t hate her, and I’ll tell you why, but it’s a bit of a story.” Blaise took a deep breath and looked at Draco as he continued. “I was angry at her for a bit, though I knew I shouldn’t be. You chose her vision of your future over mine and, yeah, I was angry. There was nothing I wanted more than …” Blaise paused. “Anyway.

“Hermione can do this thing where she sort of transports you into memories of her world.”

“I’ve done it,” Draco nodded.

Draco hugged the present a little tighter.

“She showed me what she remembered of Hogwarts. There was you, mostly with Crabbe and Goyle. Then with Pans and Theo. Hermione has almost no memory of me before sixth year. You looked like hell, and even then … I was alone.

“Draco, I wasn’t in your life at all.”

Blaise paused to let that sink in. Draco wondered what that must have looked like. Blaise on his own? He was quiet enough for it, but a face like that just can’t get lost in a crowd. How could he have Blaise so close and not _be this close?_ Blaise’s gaze did not falter when he continued.

“The notion of not being your best friend scares me. The idea that I could have not known you at all? That’s terrifying. I would rather have,” he motioned to the space between them, “this than anything less. I’ve known you for eleven years, and by the time you aren’t here anymore it will have been at least thirteen. That is thirteen more years than I got wherever Hermione is from. If your fate is the only reason I get to be with you like this, I can’t hate it no matter how much I want to.”

He said it so factually. If Hermione brought them tougher, he couldn’t hate her. Like it was just that simple.

“Why are you like this?” Draco groaned, waving one hand in reference to his general Blaise-ness.

“Like what?”

“You just take everything I throw at you!” Draco shouted. “You should hate me! Or at least be frustrated! You are so important and I just did what I did. You said it, I chose Hermione and you’re still here! Why are you still here?”

“I told you,” Blaise said, “I am your best friend. And nobody on this planet loves you more than I do. If I only get to be your best friend, that’s enough for me.”

Draco sighed.

_If only …_

_If only …_

_If only …_

“Hermione and I talked a lot this summer. She does not know what it is like to die, and I am scared. I have thought about it so much, but I never used to think about how it would feel. For once, Hermione does not have the answer.

“She worries more about what the other version of her is doing. Hermione worries more about her legacy. She thinks she marries Weasley, which is disgusting, but it got me wondering about mine. Do you remember the book you helped me borrow during first year? Over Christmas holiday?”

“Somewhere between your hand slicing itself open and me kicking your arse in a snowball fight, there might have been a book,” Blaise quipped.

“You two cheated!” Draco insisted. “It was a book detailing everything the world knows about people like me and their Reapers. Obviously, I am next. Hermione asked what I believe people will remember about me, and everything I thought was not good. I have a handle on the Malfoy part of my legacy. I can control that, I think. Perhaps. Maybe. Hell, just take it.”

Draco thrust the package at Blaise, who took it with a laugh. He tore off the wrapping and opened the box to find a leather journal with the Malfoy crest emblazoned on the front. Blaise stared at it intently, unwilling to meet Draco’s eyes. He always was quick to put the pieces together.

“Every one of those people had someone to write about them. The only thing I can do to show you how much you mean to me is to put my legacy in your hands. After I …” Draco anxiously cleared his throat. “After I die, people will say all sorts of things about me. This is really selfish, I just know you will tell the truth. I trust you will be fair and I cannot ask for any more than that.”

Blaise couldn’t really say anything. At least, Draco hoped he couldn’t, because silence was always the prelude to disappointment. Draco shifted awkwardly. Blaise hadn’t even looked at him yet!

“If you don’t like it, do not want the responsibility, I understand. I just thought that maybe you’d, um, be the best, I mean—“

Blaise cut off his rambling by wrapping Draco in a tight hug. Draco melted. All the tension left his body at once and he had to wrap his arms around Blaise’s waist to stay upright. Blaise was the perfect choice, like the universe pulled them together for this reason. This, right here? This was home. Blaise didn’t say anything, so Draco admitted,

“There is no one else I trust to tell my story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finds a sledgehammer*  
> *rips my heart out of my chest*  
> *pounds it to a pulp*
> 
> No big deal, I'm just sinking my own ship. It's fine. If you want a quick and happy Draco/Blaise read because I'm destroying that ship here, check out ["Because I like You."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13426674) Comments and criticism are always welcome. Thank you so much for reading.


	22. Chapter XXI: "The Challenge"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco nearly loses everything, but the result ain't so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, an apology. I know this chapter took awhile, the ending, which will now be the beginning of the next chapter, simply wouldn't come to me. That almost never happens to me; it's why I outline. Second, the ending of this chapter was written literally right now. I haven't edited it, so I may come back to fix it later on. Third, the title of this chapter made me think of the Mary Kate and Ashley movie by the same name. It's a classic. 10/10 would recommend.

A sign-up sheet for the Inquisitorial Squad appeared on the bulletin board the following morning.

Hermione told Draco about the club over the summer. He had to pry it out of her, after weeks of, “I don’t want to rush things along” and “You won’t like what I have to say.” She told him about how eager he was to sign up for more power and Draco had laughed.

 _Umbridge? Real power?_ _That is amateur Quidditch compared to what I have been through now. I looked the Dark Lord in the eyes and told him no. Hermione’s version of me was not even able to stand up to his own aunt, let alone one of the most powerful wizards the world has ever known. That version of me is weak. I am not weak!_

Draco ripped the parchment down before anyone could see it. To be honest, he was more curious about the present from the rest of the House that Blaise had hidden under his bed. He hadn’t seen Blaise open it. One peek wouldn’t hurt, right?

A new copy of the Inquisitorial Squad sheet appeared the following morning and Draco tore it down, too.

He overslept on Saturday. Draco woke up in the afternoon and smiled groggily at Theo, the only other boy in the room. He seemed to be sorting a stash of herbs and potions Draco hadn’t seen before. He did not pay it much mind, just yawned and fell back onto his pillows. Theo chuckled.

“Welcome back,” he teased. “If you were out much longer I think Blaise would’ve attempted mouth-to-mouth. Not that you would’ve minded much.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“You taking over for Flint?” he asked, nodding to the collection resting on the foot of Theo’s bed. His hands stilled. He looked to the door and cast a quick _Muffliato_. Theo asked,

“Would it be okay if I was?”

Draco shrugged.

“If they buy from someone, I suppose it is better to keep it in-House.”

“Well, I’m a bit more enterprising than Flint. He was easily swindled, not exactly in touch with his entrepreneurial spirit.” At Draco’s blank stare, Theo amended, “He just wanted to make enough to balance what he bought.”

“And you …?”

“I am looking at a new pair of trainers, my friend,” Theo said with a sly grin. He’d always been slippery. _The apple did not fall far from the tree, as Father would say._ Then Theo mentioned,

“No charge for you, if you ever need anything, of course. I’ve got quite the lot here. If you need to relax … Forget … Numb the pain … I have something for it all. There’s a new sign-up thing downstairs, by the way. You might want to take a—“

He stopped mid-sentence as Draco ran out of the room in nothing but his pants and an “I ♥ Krum” t-shirt Viktor sent him as a joke. He took a couple steps down the stairs before deciding, _Fuck it,_ and hopped over the bannister. His Housemates stared at him as he ran to the bulletin board in his knickers.

Half the House had signed up for the Inquisitorial Squad. He saw Theo’s name, just below Hestia and above Montague. The world seemed to tilt; Hermione never mentioned this many people signing up. She said there were ten of them, but there were at least sixty names on this list.

“Blaise?” Draco asked, his eyes not moving from the parchment. When he didn’t answer, Draco repeated, “Blaise?!” but a little louder this time. Met again with silence, he turned to face his Housemates and shouted,

“Where the ever-loving fuck is Zabini?!”

They looked at him with strange expressions, making no more than basic mechanical movements as Draco’s eyes roamed across each of them in turn. His hunt for clues to Blaise’s whereabouts turned up nothing. His nose twitched with a bit of displeasure. His classmates’ eyes were wide, like they never quite expected Draco to assert authority when it mattered. He stood there in his underwear, but he was their leader and determined to make sure they knew it.

“I’ll find him,” Graham offered.

“See that you do,” Draco snapped, and Montague was out the door in seconds. “Gupta!” Amrish perked up at Draco’s request. “Gather the rest of the House. Tell them they will be here directly after dinner for a meeting. Five points taken from everyone who is late.”

“You’d really take points from your own House?” Flora Carrow asked.

“Be here and you will not have the misfortune of finding out,” Draco said before making his way back upstairs. He caught sight of Hermione looking at him curiously from a corner, but he didn’t have time to wonder what it was about.

**.oOo.**

Everyone gathered in the common room after dinner; Gupta having conveyed the seriousness of Draco’s threat. Draco stood in front of the fireplace as nervous chills wracked his body. He crossed his arms to stop the shaking as he stared at all hundred-and-thirty of his Housemates. He sensed this moment would define everything: him, his House, and their future. If they would ever accept him as their leader, he needed to assert the authority embedded in his name.

“Do you know what the Inquisitorial Squad is?” he asked. The students looked at each other rather awkwardly before Hestia Carrow said,

“It’s a select group of students who are supportive of the Ministry of Magic, hand-selected by Professor Umbridge to maintain order here at Hogwarts.”

“Is Hogwarts any different than it has always been? This group is about getting rid of Headmaster Dumbledore and using us to do it,” Draco corrected. “Umbridge is a terrible professor who refuses to let us do actual spellwork, yet you want to put her in charge of the entire school? Dumbledore stuck me at the bottom of the lake, and I would still take him over Umbridge. ‘Supportive of the Ministry of Magic’ is just another way of saying, ‘We are with Professor Frillypants and against Harry Potter.’”

“Getting rather close to him, aren’t you?” Hestia challenged. “Trying to move on from Blaise with a half-blood? Always thought you were better than that.”

“Shut up, Hestia!” Blaise shouted from one of the wing-backed chairs.

“No, Blaise, it’s true. I am in love with Harry Potter,” Draco deadpanned. His chills disappeared in favour of a faux apologetic expression. He turned to Blaise and said, “I should have told you earlier. We have been seeing each other since the beginning of term. I wrote him all summer and we plan to be married after graduation. Father will not approve, him being a half-blood, you know, but I don’t care, I love him so much. You and Weasley will be our witnesses, Snape will officiate—“

Blaise burst into laughter, holding one hand up as if to stop the tale progressing any further. Draco and Pansy followed into a giggle fit soon after.

“Sorry—sorry!” Blaise said, doubled-over in hysterical laughter.

“I didn’t even have time to mention our matching pygmy puff tattoos!” Draco threw his hands in the air in mock frustration.

“Draco? And Harry?” Pansy said, leaning against the side of Blaise’s chair. “Hestia, that is the most unbelievable thing I have ever heard.”

“I would gladly snog Potter if it meant we could perform actual spells in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Draco said.

“You can’t,” Gupta added. All heads snapped toward him. “Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six: boys and girls cannot be within six inches of each other. Oh, wait …”

“Doesn’t matter much to me,” Blaise joked.

“She does not think much of anything through!” Draco said. “That is my point. We cannot be part of what she is asking us to do. She will use us make herself Headmistress. We are not going to help her, so take your names off the list and we will not have a problem.”

Several of the students shifted uncomfortably; many took a step back toward the wall which was Draco’s first clue something was wrong. Hestia took one menacing step toward Draco.

“My name is staying,” she insisted. Draco tilted his head to one side.

“I say it goes.”

“I don’t care,” Hestia retorted. Their classmates gasped. The air was thick with curiosity and apprehension as the smaller Slytherins hid behind the sixth- and seventh-years.

“Are you challenging my authority, Hestia?” Draco asked. He saw her waver, cast a look to Flora and tug at the sleeve of her sweater. Hestia couldn’t walk back an official challenge, but she figured the risk was worth the reward.

“Yes.”

As though cued, Blaise and Pansy got up to stand at either side of Draco. _My lieutenants._ Draco lifted his chin and straightened his spine, wanting more desperately than ever to be like his father.

_Just this once, just this once. That’s what they want, isn’t it?_

The common room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire …

Then everyone moved to stand behind Hestia, leaving a sort of no-man’s land between her and Draco. He didn’t allow it to show on his face, but the full-body chills returned as his confidence wavered. He crossed his arms to hide his shaking hands. Draco’s mouth went dry and he flinched at every footstep. Soon, the entire House stood behind Hestia to support her challenge.

Theo Nott was a holdout. He appeared torn, standing in the middle with his head bopping quickly between Draco and Hestia like a Bludger being tossed between Beaters. Friendship versus family. Tradition versus the traitors. Theo could stem the tide or be the final nail in Draco’s coffin.

“I don’t know what to do,” Theo admitted. He was as pale as Draco had ever seen him. Hestia noticed his hesitance.

“Your father is loyal to the Dark Lord, Theo. Draco has chosen the wrong side! We know what we are supposed to do. We follow—“

“You are supposed to follow me, if you recall,” Draco snapped. “Theo, you are one of my closest friends. You stand by your friends!”

Which made it all the more heartbreaking when Theo joined the group behind Hestia. He started to say,

“I’m sor—“

“Save it, Nott,” Draco cut him off. He looked around the room and caught Hermione’s eye. She looked at him with steely eyes and mouthed something that looked like, “Never bend.”

 _I don’t … I don’t know what to do. If I’ve lost Theo, I’ve lost everyone. Perhaps channeling Father was the wrong move. It is_ always _the wrong move. Never bend, never bend … Hermione believes in me, so why don’t they? How can I show them what I can be? How do I convince them this is the right thing to do?_

“Is this what you think of me?” Draco asked them. “You would follow Hestia over me? She will tell you to serve the Dark Lord like the rest of her family. She will light a match and tell you to watch the world burn, without care for what comes next.

“I have never told you what to believe, not even when I brought Hannah here. I fought my father, my mother, and all of you so I could have another friend. If Blaise wanted to be friends with Dean Thomas, that was fine. But all hell broke loose the moment I became friends with Hannah! Through all of it, I let you sit here and stare at her with your prejudice and your hate, requesting only that you respect my choices.

“Now, when I finally demand something of you, you choose to cast your lot with someone else! Gryffindors say our redeeming quality is loyalty, but from where I’m standing I do not see a hell of a lot of it right now!”

His Housemates were chastened but Draco realized there was nothing he could say or do to change their minds. They were either afraid or ignorant, two unshakeable states.

One small, green-eyed first-year still stood in the melee of uncertainty, like one last glimmer of hope before every shred of Draco’s authority slipped away. Daphne Greengrass hissed at her,

“Astoria, get back here right now!”

But the girl did not move. She was confused, her eyes wide and looking to Draco for instruction. He held his hand out to her.

“Astoria!” Daphne shouted after her. The girl, Astoria, turned to look at her sister. Draco’s heart fell past his stomach and down to what felt like his knees.

“Mum said we were supposed to listen to Draco!” she insisted. “Is Draco wrong?”

Daphne didn’t answer.

“I don’t like Professor Umbridge. She yelled at Dennis Creevey in the corridor and made him cry. I like Dennis, and I like Draco. He got me a birthday cake! I … I don’t like Professor Umbridge and Draco doesn’t like Professor Umbridge. Why shouldn’t I listen to Draco like Mum said?”

Daphne couldn’t answer. Astoria walked over to Draco and took his hand.

The floodgates opened.

“Daphne, get your brat sister in line!” Hestia shouted. Daphne took one look at Hestia before shoving her way to the front and taking a place behind Draco. He unclenched his teeth, not having realized his jaw was aching with the effort. Following Astoria, the other first-years ran to stand behind Draco. The second-years followed soon after. The seventh-years came next, though they likely wanted to side with Draco in the first place. Draco had eighty people at his back where moments earlier there were only two.

“Loyalty,” Pansy quipped to Hestia. “Learn it, bitch.”

Hestia’s eyes widened and Pansy smirked. If Draco wasn’t clinging to the top of the hierarchy with his fingernails, he might’ve laughed.

“Loyalty? Loyalty?! We are all loyal to the Dark Lord. You know the kind of power he has. What the hell is Draco in comparison?” Hestia insisted. “He is nothing! Draco Malfoy saved a blood traitor, is friends with a half-blood, and is weaker than his father ever was!”

Draco laughed at that.

“Think it’s funny, do you, Malfoy?”

“Hilarious,” Draco deadpanned.

“If you faced the Dark Lord, you’d do anything for him. You’d be terrified out of your mind!”

“I was,” Draco replied. The entire House gasped; the walls seemed to jump backward in surprise. “I am not afraid of my father, and Umbridge is hardly enough to make me blink. You all know by now who has taken up residence in the manor. Voldemort demanded I kneel and I said no. He tried to kill me and failed. I do not fear Voldemort, Hestia, and I cannot begin to say how little I fear you.”

The remaining students surged forward as if pulled by invisible magnets. Draco took a deep breath to sort of savor the moment, lingering in the satisfaction he got from the despair apparent on Hestia Carrow’s face. Only two remained in front of him: Hestia, with Flora shrinking at her side. Draco forced back a smile as he said,

“Flora, Hestia, you have a choice. Join everyone else in removing your names from consideration for the Inquisitorial Squad, or lose the challenge.”

Flora looked to Hestia for guidance and seemed to come up empty.

“I did not know you were a fan of my father,” Draco teased. Hestia narrowed her eyes in response. “You see, my father told me once that there are two things in the world that matter.” He held up one finger, “What you can do,” he held up a second finger, “and what people believe you can do.”

“I nearly excommunicated Blaise for breaking one rule. What do you imagine I will do to someone who challenges my authority?” He paused, never quite above a dash of melodrama. “What do you believe I will do to someone who challenges my authority and loses?”

Flora crossed no-man’s land first with Hestia trailing shortly behind. Draco turned, then, to address everyone standing in front of him.

“One point from everyone who sided with Hestia!” Draco revealed. There was a collective groan as he added the total of, “One hundred thirty-two points from Slytherin!” He could practically hear the emeralds being pulled out of their hourglass. Draco walked over to Hestia Carrow so they were nose-to-nose. “I may not be my father, but do not mistake that for weakness. I will take from anyone who tries to defy me. So help me Merlin, if you challenge me again you will quite simply be dead.”

Draco then turned to address the full House again.

“We are Slytherins and loyalty is the most important thing any of us have. I can always count on Blaise and Pans, but those who have the most to lose and still follow their heart represent the best of us.

“One hundred thirty-seven points to Astoria Greengrass!” Draco gave Astoria a light pat on the back and said, “Thank you. That was very brave. Never stop trusting your heart, okay?”

Astoria nodded, her eyes never seeming to shrink to any normal size when Draco was concerned. She looked at the world like Hermione, like it was too much to take in and she didn’t want to miss a single thing. He handed her the sign-up parchment and she dutifully tossed it into the fireplace.

**.oOo.**

Draco was the first one back to their dormitory, as it was hardly nine. That show of bravado had taken its toll. He was exhausted, his feet were like lead bricks as he dragged himself up the stairs.

Once inside, the door closed and locked itself behind him. Next thing he knew, Hermione pressed him up against it and kissed him. Their first kiss had been nice, tender, and apologetic. This was not that. This was Hermione’s tongue in his mouth, her hands in his hair, and that was really all Draco could concentrate on. He was too fatigued to think anything but _I like this. I like this very much._

He kissed Hermione back enthusiastically. Draco noticed she didn’t taste like anything, but she felt very human when he touched her. He ran his tongue on the underside of Hermione’s bottom lip and she shuddered, pressing herself harder against him. Draco had one hand on her lower back to hold her there, which felt good until it felt too good. He was still relatively inexperienced and everything new felt ten times better than he guessed it should. Hermione was still kissing him and he was still enjoying it, but something at the back of his fatigued mind kept shouting, _ABORT! ABORT!_

Draco pushed her away and she opened her eyes, momentarily stunned. He cast _Muffliato_ in case one of the other boys decided to make an entrance. Hermione gave him a stunned look in response.

“What the hell was that about?” he asked, his voice catching in his throat a bit because he really, really wanted to be kissing her.

“That was the bravest thing I have ever seen you do,” she answered. “I just … It felt like the proper response.”

_It was definitely the proper thing to do._

“If Astoria hadn’t been on my side, I’d be packing my trunk and moving to France,” Draco said. “It wasn’t bravery, it was necessary. I didn’t deserve …. What you just did.”

_But I would really like for you to do it again. Sometime soon._

“As long as you never back down, people will follow you. Now they know Hestia will cave when things become difficult and everyone knows you won’t.”

“And what good is that to them?”

“Hard choices are everything when it comes to being a leader,” Hermione insisted.

“Which is great until it kills me!” Draco snapped. In response, Hermione promised,

“I’ll be at your side when it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have [another Dramione WIP](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13674783/chapters/31412292) . It's more light-hearted, and if you want to check that one out for smiles and giggles it may offset the somber tone of this fic. 
> 
> I want to thank every single one of you who has read this far and even if you haven't enjoyed it, for giving "In My House" a shot. I love this work more than any other I've written. I know it isn't for everybody but I want you to know I cherish your comments and your kudos because this fic is what I consider my best. So thank you from the bottom of my heart (Which I crushed when I sank my own ship back in chapter sixteen or so.) for going through this crazy journey with me. ♥


	23. XXII: Occlumency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why walk a mile in someone else's shoes when you can see life through their eyes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my lack of timely updates. I have to be in the right headspace to write because I care about this fic so much. While it's easier to write happier stuff, I hope that you enjoy this little piece of Draco's life. I plan to have more up much more quickly. Thank you so much for reading! I know this work just surpassed 3,000 hits which boggles my mind. I am so grateful y'all keep coming back to this work and I appreciate every single one of you. (All canon scenes and characters are property of JK Rowling.)

Monday.

_Nobody likes Mondays. Mondays are the Umbridge of weekdays. If I die on a Sunday I will not be all that upset about it because at least I will not have to suffer through another Monday._

Draco spent much of the day dreading the evening. Their Potions lesson went as it usually did, with Snape contemptuously reviewing Potter’s work shortly after Finegan managed yet another explosion. Hermione hovered over his shoulder again, which was only slightly less annoying than it used to be.

Hermione pulled him to the side once they left Snape’s classroom. Crabbe and Goyle looked back, but Draco waved a hand dismissively and they carried on out of the dungeon. Hermione sighed and everything seemed to come out in a rush.

“I’ve been helping Harry. A bit more than usual, you see. He needed some extra … prodding. He wasn’t supposed to start Occlumency until after Christmas but, well, I believe there is something wrong. Something I did, something is missing and I don’t know what it is. Everything is happening so fast now and I don’t know … I don’t know what’s happening. It’s unravelling. My reality is unraveling!”

Draco shook his head.

“That is not possible. I do not believe you, this has never been your reality,” he insisted. “Try not to worry so much about what you believe is supposed to happen.”

“Occlumency lessons start in January. It’s November!” Hermione started biting her fingernails. “I shouldn’t tell you. I can’t tell you, you’ll throw everything off even more. Two months, I can handle. I can right this timeline, Draco. I can do it.”

“Can you?” Draco lowered his voice to a whisper and asked, “Or is this when everything starts to turn? I have less than three years left, Hermione. How much longer can everything stay the same?”

“Until it has to change!” Hermione shouted back. “I want to control it, I want to know what is going to happen to you and I can’t know unless—“

“You cannot know,” Draco repeated. “Maybe it is time you stop trying to make the world into what you know, and help me cope with how bad my world actually is.”

**.oOo.**

Hermione left him alone after that. Draco wondered what she could be up to. He wondered about Hermione often, especially in the days since she had kissed him again. She felt different in those moments. He hated to think it, hated to hope, but she felt human. Was that possible? If it was, could there be anything … more … that they could do? It shamed him to think of it, but even more that he wanted all that Hermione could offer. (Perhaps even what she couldn’t.)

Snape had moved all the desks in the Potions classroom to rest against the walls, leaving a wide opening in the centre. Draco stood facing Harry Potter in the middle of the room, wand out as Professor Snape explained what was to happen. Potter had arrived early so Snape was already well into a diatribe.

“Master Malfoy is going to try to see your thoughts in a similar, though more direct manner than you are used to. You must remain focused, Potter. Repel Master Malfoy with your brain and you will not need to resort to your wand.”

“But I don’t understand,” Potter replied. “How do I do that? How can I prevent him from seeing what I don’t want him to see?”

“The spell, Master Malfoy, is ‘Legilimens.’ You will use this spell to attempt to break into Potter’s mind,” Snape said softly, ignoring Harry’s question. “We are going to see how well he resists. I have been told that he already has shown aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse … You will find that similar powers are needed for this … Brace yourself, Potter.”

“But how—“ Harry began as Draco shouted, “Legilimens!”

Adrenaline shot through him as Potter’s mind opened and navigating through it was easier than turning pages in a book. Draco flipped through the recent, boring memories as each spiraled into and rapidly back out of view in front of him. There was Snape insulting Potter in class earlier that day, Weasley stuffing his face with food at lunch, and Draco was hit with a sudden burst of jealousy when Weasley’s sister made eyes at Dean Thomas.

Then they were in a room. Not one Draco had seen before, but definitely at Hogwarts because Cho Chang stood in front of him in her uniform. Draco blinked and Cho was kissing him. He felt Potter’s elation, along with the confused rush of thoughts ( _She’s kissing me! Bloody hell, what do I do with my hands?_ ) before his brain seemed to flatline. The kiss was nice until Cho started crying, at which point he waved the memory away.

One memory quivered constantly in the background throughout every thought that spiraled in and out of Potter’s mind. It was like Potter was trying to hide it, but in doing so managed just the opposite. Draco squinted and flicked his wand out to grab the memory and fling it into his sightline like a rogue gnome.

“Expelliarmus!”

Students were shouting it all around and wands flew in every direction. Potter walked around the large room where they left Cho, teaching the spell to at least twenty students trying to disarm each other. The room started to tremble as Potter attempted to force Draco out of his mind. There was a parchment hanging near the door, and the memory faded fast as Potter pulled Draco away. Draco ran toward it and just as the room faded out of sight, Draco made out the words scribbled atop the parchment:

“DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY”

Potter finally kicked him out and fell to the floor as something sharp grazed Draco’s left hand. He flinched and Professor Snape scoffed.

“Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex, Potter?”

“No, sir,” Harry mumbled, righting himself and eventually standing again.

“I thought not,” Snape said, keeping a close eye on Potter. “You let Master Malfoy get too far in and see something you did not wish for him to see. You managed to stop him eventually, though you wasted time and energy shouting. You must remain focused. What did you see, Draco?”

_Does he know? Would Dumbledore have told him about non-sanctioned lessons taught by a fifteen-year-old for Merlin-only-knows what purpose? Every House but Slytherin was in attendance, so I doubt it. But Potter might actually be rather helpful._

“I told you to tell me what you saw,” Snape said, louder this time. Louder than he had been to Potter.

“I saw Potter snogging Cho Chang. She was crying so maybe he was new at it. Perhaps it was his first …” Draco teased. He could tell by the angry flush of Potter’s cheeks that it was. He made sure to catch Potter’s gaze before he said, “That was all I saw.”

Draco wouldn’t say it was gratitude on Harry’s face just then, but they had reached an unspoken agreement. Dumbledore’s Army would remain secret and Draco would set the cost.

“Excellent work, Master Malfoy,” Snape said. He patted Draco on the shoulder almost affectionately. “Mr. Potter, I want you to try and enter Draco’s mind. We will start small, then work upward, so best if Potter performs the spell on you first.”

Draco had no idea what to do or what to hide. He knew he could not protect his entire mind from Potter, but what would he be looking for? What would he know to look for? The answer came to Draco right before Potter cast the spell.

_He wants to know about Hermione._

“Legilimens!”

His mind was ripped open and flung everywhere, spread out in front of Harry Potter like a garden where memories were flowers to be picked. Draco tried to grab anything and everything to do with Hermione and lock it behind a wall. Brick wall, steel wall, it didn’t fucking matter what he conjured up around those memories because Potter kept trying to break in and Draco refused to yield.

_One hit. Two hits. Three hits._

Potter gave up too easily. The rest of Draco’s mind was out in the open and Potter scanned through the memory garden until he found what he was looking for. Draco heard Potter think the word, “Payback,” and cringed when Potter chose his next memory.

_No. No, no, no … Please don’t make me relive it. I don’t want to see—_

But it was too late; Potter went looking for a kiss and he found one. While it wasn’t Draco’s first, that kiss was also wet, sad, and one he would never forget. His memory might have been a little off. Maybe Blaise’s lips weren’t quite that soft or his hold on Draco’s arse wasn’t quite so tight, but he remembered enough.

The emotions of that moment hit him like a strong wind, continuously trying to knock Draco off his feet. The shame came back first, because there was always that undercurrent of _wrong_ and _disgusting_ swimming through the back of his mind. But there was an excitement at finally getting to do the thing he’d wanted to do for the longest time. He’d kissed Pansy and even kissed Theo on a dare, but this kiss had been everything Draco wanted it to be. Even knowing he could never do it again, Draco was happy to be in that moment, safe with his best friend in such an intimate way. Most importantly, Draco felt loved and he didn’t believe he could get that from anyone else.

At least, not back then.

Potter seemed too stunned to do anything but watch through Draco’s eyes, choking on all the emotions. It had been nearly a year and Draco had gone without thinking of that moment. He had gotten quite good at repressing that part of himself, but having to relive it in front of someone like this was agonizing.

_Anything else. Please. Anything but this._

Potter released his hold on Draco’s mind. Draco grit his teeth and tried to hold back the tears but a couple spilled over. He felt so hollow, like he could be filled up with anything and act on it: hatred, fear, love, any of it or all of it. Professor Snape proceeded with what he probably thought was abject professionalism but really just made him seem like an arse.

“What did you see, Potter?” he asked.

“I didn’t see anything important, Professor,” Potter replied. Draco chuckled thickly because it was very much the opposite.

“He tried to see my Reaper,” Draco mumbled.

“I couldn’t get in,” Potter replied. “He, uh, built a wall around his Reaper memories.”

“Which would have left everything else exposed, Master Malfoy,” Snape chastised. “Even your most intimate memories were Potter’s for the taking. Given your current state I assume he found something rather embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing!” Draco shouted back. Snape looked offended but Draco didn’t feel at all remorseful. Snape knew about Blaise, everyone in Slytherin knew about Blaise! Fuck him for saying that.

“It is not embarrassing,” Draco repeated. “I just did not want anyone else to see it. It … It does not feel like that memory is ours anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Potter rushed to apologize.

“That is all for today’s lesson,” Snape snapped, dismissing them. “You may continue this lovefest outside my classroom. We will meet again next Monday.”

Potter couldn’t wait to get out of there, it seemed. Draco was not far behind him, but before they could get too close to the stairs Draco grabbed his arm and turned him around.

“Get off me!” Potter shouted. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have seen that, I know—“

“Quiet down!” Draco demanded. “I need a favour.”

Potter’s face drained of its colour.

“I knew you were going to use the DA against me. Fine, what do you want, Malfoy? Am I cleaning your boots? Want me to fall off my broom a few times so you can laugh?”

“As entertaining as that would be, I have something better in mind.”

“Well unless you’re going to tell me, sod off!”

“Shut up, Potter! Does your little army take Slytherins?” Draco asked. Potter’s eyebrows shot so high they disappeared into his hair.

“I mean, I suppose, yeah? If this is some kind of trick to get us caught by Umbridge—“

“What do you teach them?” Draco asked.

“Basic stuff, Malfoy, I dunno. We’ve done disarming and we’ve done protection spells. I think I’ll teach them how to do a Patronus next.”

“You can produce a Patronus?” Draco asked, surprised.

“Yeah, can you?” Harry asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I hate this and I still do not like you, so remember that,” Draco insisted. “But I have friends who could use some help. You know who is living in my house, so you understand I want my friends to be able to protect themselves. Would you teach them?”

“Is it Crabbe or Goyle?” Potter asked.

“Merlin, no!” Draco said.

“Fine then, who are they? I will slip them coins since we have one more lesson before break.”

Draco took a deep breath.

“Pansy, Blaise, and Astoria Greengrass.”

Potter nodded and they walked up the stairs to where Draco knew Hermione was waiting.

**.oOo.**

Christmas at Hogwarts was uneventful. Mother sent him new clothes and Quidditch gear as a Christmas present. Draco still found his eyes wandering to the nightstand next to Blaise’s bed where he knew that secret present was hidden. Draco caught Blaise and Pansy taking turns being targets for Astoria as she continued to learn how to disarm someone. He smiled at that, knowing they would at least have that in their arsenal come summer.

The escape happened in January.

“MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN” was a headline most people cringed at. Students gasped and covered their mouths, started biting their fingernails or scribbling harried letters to their families. The Slytherin table was not so preoccupied. Draco’s heart did a little flip when he saw Aunt Bella’s photo on the front page, as his Housemates determined whose parents were out and whose were still in.

“Rabastan and Rodolphus,” Pansy said with disgust. “Grandmother loved them, said they were the best example of what a wizard could do for our society. Apparently they were best mates with my dad, so I hate them.”

“Your parents didn’t make it out, Pansy,” Bastien said. He looked at her apologetically and Pansy laughed.

“Good. I’d sooner see them shoveling Dragon dung than try to live with them. Best they stay where they are, anyhow. Mum had a fit about my speech at Grandmother’s funeral,” Pansy admitted.

“Rookwood and Dolohov made it out. Seems like the Dark Lord went for the pick of the lot,” Theo observed. “Got Mulciber, too, that’ll start the Imperiused rumours again.”

“They found Montague in the U-bend of one of the toilets on the second floor,” Pansy added. “The Weasleys pushed him into that cabinet in that one corner of the fifth floor. Said he was in some sort of limbo, heard people in a shop somewhere then heard students here. Apparated himself out, but splinched off a couple toenails.”

“Cabinet?” Draco asked. “I don’t remember a cabinet on the fifth floor.”

“Strange, it’s always been there. Are you excited to see your aunt again?” Pansy asked. “I remember how much you used to idolize her.”

“Aunt Bella was the only person who treated me like a child,” Draco admitted. “I loved her. She took me on my first broomstick ride. She gave me candy. She was the best aunt I could have asked for until she got herself sentenced to life in Azkaban. I do not love her the same way I used to.”

Then dread started to set in. Draco felt like he would be sick, so he pushed away his plate and covered his mouth. Blaise subtly passed him water and Draco gulped it down.

“Are you okay?” Pansy asked. Draco shook his head.

“No, Pans, I’m not. I just realized this means I have to go home.”

“No!” Blaise insisted. “You can stay with us. With me, at my house. My mother is living with fiancé number ten who is hoping to become husband number eight. It would only be us.”

Draco shook his head.

“I have questions only Aunt Bella can answer. I must go home.”

They left breakfast soon after and Draco trudged up the stairs to Transfiguration. He was laughing at something Theo said as they turned around the corner on the fifth floor. It was mid-smile when Draco saw Professor Dumbledore walking toward them, wand aloft as he levitated a large cabinet with the help of another teacher.

Theo, Blaise, and Pansy didn’t realize Draco had stopped dead. It wasn’t a normal cabinet Montague was pushed through. That cabinet was all too familiar to Draco Malfoy; those darkened steel doors were the primary feature in his nightmares. This wasn’t a dream, this was real, wasn’t it? Professor Dumbledore looked at him with a curious expression as he passed, though Draco’s eyes never left the cabinet doors. His friends had turned to stare and Draco felt their gazes but none of it mattered.

_What is real and what isn’t? Is my life destined to become my nightmare?_

Draco didn’t know what to do. He wanted Hermione, needed Hermione and she wasn’t here. She was always the one to rescue him from his mind unless he was destined to suffer through it. Draco’s eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed onto the floor, unwilling to contemplate what that cabinet could mean. Everything went dark but he could hear his friends rushing toward him. He felt Blaise’s hand on the back of his head while someone’s robe became a pillow. And then he heard Hermione.

“Draco? Draco! Draco tell me what’s wrong. What happened?”

Speech seemed to have abandoned him and consciousness appeared to be following suit. Draco felt his chest heave rapidly up and down, so quickly that breath almost wouldn’t come. He was choking, panicking, and had no idea what to do.

His friends’ voices jumbled together in a mess of, “What happened?” “Are you okay?” “Get Madam Pomfrey!” “Stay with us, Draco!”

“Answer me, Draco!” Hermione pleaded. Her voice broke through the melee. “Tell me what to do. What went wrong?”

With moments to spare before consciousness abandoned him entirely, Draco managed to cough out,

“Unraveled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said it already, but I cannot say it enough. Thank you so much for reading this work. More should be up soon. (For real this time.)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticism are always appreciated!! Thanks again for reading and I would love to hear your feedback.


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